L'epoux Cadavre
by SarahBelle
Summary: One wedding, two grooms, one of whom happens to be very dead, and a terrible choice to make. There's been a grave misunderstanding in this gothic fairy tale, heavily influenced by Tim Burton's Corpse Bride, where ALL rise to the occasion. Complete!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or Tim Burton's Corpse Bride movie. Wish I did, because the former is totally wonderful and the latter looks _so _awesome. But anyway, I don't own them.**_

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_This story is based on an idea taken from Tim Burton's Corpse Bride film, which is due to come out in September or October, depending on where you live – check out for the truly spine-tingling trailer. It features the voice talents of Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham-Carter and Emily Watson, as well as Christopher Lee. Though I haven't actually seen the film yet, I have a fair idea of the plot and what happens in the film. So I won't be able to rip off the script without knowing it. Which is kind of a relief._

_My story will echo the main plot of the film – with a few changes of course. Instead of the character Victor, I will have Christine – and the other characters will change around her accordingly._

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**Prologue**

He had lost a lot of blood, this he knew. He clasped his hand to his side, trying in a last ditch effort to stop the flow, but he knew that it was too late for that – staunching the wound would not replace the valuable liquid of life.

He was scrambling over tree roots, ducking under branches, trying desperately to run faster, faster; away from those who were chasing him; away from those whom he could hear swarming through the forest behind him. He knew that if they caught him, they would certainly kill him. But he also knew that he was dying anyway – the wound was too deep, and he had lost too much blood. It was simply a matter of time before death claimed him either way – but then, it was simply a matter of time before death claimed anyone. The thought managed to bring a small smile to his face.

The smile at once disappeared, as another stab of pain from his side ricocheted through him. It wouldn't be long now…but he was damned if he was going to let Philippe's goons catch him before that.

_Philippe! _He gritted his teeth, and not only against the pain. How could he? How _could_ he do this? After all he had done for him, al the help he had given him, the times they had shared, the companionship; to allow these louts to wound him, to hunt him down as if he was some sort of animal! On the way to his wedding! _His wedding! _The very wedding that he, Philippe, had arranged. Why? Why would he do this?

He didn't know the answer to that question; and he didn't want to know either; the ramblings of the man's mind no longer intrigued him. All he could feel now was rage, and pain, and pity, but not for himself…pity for the bride that he had never even gotten a glimpse of; pity for the poor girl who was most likely still waiting for the groom she had never met to lead her to the altar; pity for she who had been pushed into the marriage and, as soon as the news came that her would-be-husband was dead, would be pushed into another marriage exactly like this one had been arranged.

It was the same sad story wherever you went; women were regarded as mere objects; things to be traded and used and disposed of at the will of men. If he had been allowed to marry her, if she had become his wife, perhaps he would have been able to show her how he thought differently…perhaps she might even have been able to see past his outer skin, into his heart…

But too late for that now, much too late. He was not on his way to a wedding, to meet his bride; he was fleeing, with a sword wound in his side, and his enemies close on his scent, and he must run until he dropped.

Even as he thought that, he was stumbling across a clearing, his feet catching on the stones and rocks, seeking the safety of the trees at the other end of it. If he could just reach them, he might stand a chance of being able to hide from them, and their clubs, and their swords…

Abruptly his foot caught on something; he slipped and fell, hard, to the ground, the impact knocking all the breath out of him. He landed on a sort of bank, just under the bole of a tree, and slid down, rolling over in the process, so that he was on his back, gazing up at the late evening sunlight peeking between the green leaves of the trees. It was quietly pretty, and he felt oddly pleased that even though there was horror and blood down below, the canopy of the forest was still as beautiful as ever.

_Perhaps that is heaven…_

He managed to look up, to see what it was that had caused him to trip over – and had to chuckle. Oh, how appropriate. A convenient tombstone, in a convenient grave yard, right in the middle of the forest. It was almost ironic. He would have laughed, if he had had any more breath. He doubted he himself would get buried in a grave with a tombstone – more likely thrown onto a bonfire – but the macabre setting was almost reassuring, in some way.

He knew he would never get up again. He didn't have the strength; he could feel it flowing out of him, along with the blood which even now was saturating the earth of the bank upon which he was lying. He wouldn't even be able to defend himself against any further attack. All he could do was lie here, and wait for death to come. It wouldn't be long now…

But perhaps not long enough. Already he could hear the shouts of his pursuers, the cracking of twigs and branches under their booted feet, as they came nearer. They carried anger and loathing in their hearts, and death in their hands. He almost welcomed death now – it had to be better than this pain, and the dreadful tiredness that was flooding him – but he would not let the men be the ones to administer it to him. He would cheat them yet.

He glared up at the beautiful canopy above him.

_If I must die, then let it be now._

And, as if some unseen force had heard his wish, he suddenly knew that he was dead. It crept over him quite slowly at first – why was he no longer feeling cold? Had the natural pain killer in his body kicked in, and blotted out the pain? – but suddenly it filled him in a great rush; his heart no longer beat, however weakly, within his chest; his lungs were no longer able to draw in great, rattling breaths. He was dead. He did not know how he knew, but know he did. He was dead.

The part of him that was still able to smile beamed. They had not beaten him in the end; he had beaten them! He had cheated them of their triumph!

The trouble was that, although his body was dead, his brain didn't seem to have caught up with the idea yet, so he was still able to watch one of his pursuers come crashing out of the undergrowth on the opposite side of the clearing. The man checked at the sight of him.

"I don't think we'll need to look any further, you lot," he said quietly, walking forward, between the gravestones. "He's here."

In a few moments the clearing was filled with men, some walking purposefully towards him, others holding back, with expressions of disgust on their faces.

"Is he dead?" one of the latter asked, not willing to come to check.

The first man, who had by now reached him, snorted. "Well, he's lying still, he's not breathing, he appears to have lost a great deal of blood, and he's not looking all that well. I'd say he's dead, wouldn't you?"

"Hard to tell with a face like that," the second man said, shuddering. "That sort of thing you could imagine to be already dead anyway."

He knew that when he was alive, he would have probably strangled the man for his insolence; but now that he was no longer able to, since he no longer had control of his body, the anger he might have otherwise felt did not come. He reasoned that this must be a part of being dead.

"A pity," another man went on. "I'd have liked to do for him myself."

The second man scoffed. "Oh, yeah? I bet you wouldn't be so keen to say that if he," he jerked his head towards his prone form, "was still with us. Strong enough to take out Piers, Gaveston and Gerarde, as well as Claude _and _the boss, and run at least three miles on a side wound? I'd like to see you try to polish him off on your own."

"Well, what are we going to do now?" asked another man, who had come closer, but not close enough to examine the body acutely. "We've done what we were sent to do. He's dead. What now?"

"Yeah," chimed in another man. "Do we leave him here, or take him back to show the boss, or what?"

As one, the men looked up at the canopy. Night was falling swiftly; already the first stars could be seen in the now faint blue sky.

The dubious man was the first to speak. "I don't know about you lot, but I for one am not going back in the dark dragging _that _behind us. I mean, it was bad enough when he was alive, but now…" he shuddered.

"I dunno," another man chimed in. "Now he's dead, it seems more – you know – _natural. _Don't look quite so fright-some."

"Speak for yourself. Anyway, don't you think we'll attract a bit of attention, dragging a corpse along behind us?"

It was, in an odd way, fascinating to lie still and watch the men argue about how best to deal with his body. If he was alive, he knew he would have been furious, but as it was, since he no longer really had any part of his body to be furious with, all he could do was lie still in his now useless shell, and witness the debate.

"Well, we can't just leave him here. You _know_ that if you don't bury someone properly, their ghost comes back and haunts you."

"Stephan, we _murdered_ him. I should think that if his ghost comes back at all, it'll be because of that, and not because we failed to observe the burial rites."

"But there doesn't seem to be anything else we can do. All right; we'll bury him here, and take something of his back, to show the boss he's dead."

"What?"

"His mask."

He froze inside his dead body. Not the mask. Not that. Not the ultimate humiliation…

"No," came the voice of the first man, who remained silent throughout most of this. "That'll be just adding insult to injury. Leave the mask, and take something else."

"Like what?"

There was a pause. "The ring. He said he wanted the ring."

He remembered the wedding band, which he had slipped onto his finger for safe keeping – he didn't trust anyone else with it. It was too precious to him then…but not now. Not that there was no more use for it…

"The ring it is then." A hand came forward, and grasping the ring pulled it off his finger with some difficulty – the stiffness of _rigor mortis _was already setting in.

"Right, so we'll bury him here."

They at once attacked the ground beneath him, eager to get the job done so that they could leave before nightfall came. Brave and strong they may be, but even they feared what might happen after the sun disappeared, the moon came up, and the forest became a whole new world of darkness.

As he sank slowly into the earth, at the same time he became aware of the faint light of the moon rising. It seemed to him so beautiful. He cherished it all the more, because it was the last time he would ever see it. It was as if it were bidding him farewell…

_Goodbye, world…_

The earth rained down upon his unmasked part of his face, but he could not feel it. He was hardly even aware of it now. His brain seemed to be catching up with his body, and consequently shutting down. He did not really mind. He no longer felt angry at his death. He no longer even felt angry at the betrayal of his closest friend. All he felt was regret, that now he would never know what it was like to have the chance to love; never have a chance to use the wedding ring which the first man, standing back to supervise the job, now cupped reverently in his hand.

_And I never even got to see my bride…_

_My bride…_

The darkness closed over him. He knew no more.

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**Now, review, please!**


	2. Arrival

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, or Tim Burton's Corpse Bride, just in case any one accuses me of plagiarism. Where does the corpse stuff come in? Ah, you'll have to wait and see! Moo ha ha ha.**

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Moonjava: Once again, glad you like my writing.**

**SimplyElymas: NO! Rest assured, Nadir did _not _kill Erik! I guess that's a weight off your little Nadir obsessed mind, eh? Nadir _is _going to be in this story, but he was not among the men who killed Erik – when I said 'the first man' I meant the man who was the one to find Erik…you know, the _first _one to see him dead. I'm glad that I'm able to write good drama as well as good comedy. Thanks!**

**Lydiby; Listen, and thou shalt hear…all right, I made that up. What do you mean, smile? I smile a lot! Sometimes I even laugh, when I have to! What are you implying?**

**THELadyRedDeath: I _can _make an estimate of your guess – but I prefer not to. Erik will be _baaaaaaack!_...just not in this chapter. Or the next few. But he will be back. Otherwise there's not much point in this, is there?**

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Now, before I go any further, I'd better make a few things clear. Firstly, there are going to be two Philippe's in this; Philippe the grandfather of the brothers, and Philippe Raoul's elder brother, who was named after him. To stop confusion, in the chapters after this the grandfather will be known as Philippe the Elder, and the other Philippe as Philippe the Younger.**

**Carlotta will definitely be in this as well – says she who's already written her in - but unfortunately for those who hate the diva she's not going to be nearly as much of a cow as she is in any other version. Although she's going to throw a few temper tantrums – which will be understandable considering the situation – she will be, on the whole, a good guy.**

**Nadir will be in this as well, for all those who love that little Persian, but not where you expect him at first. So don't go making any assumptions.**

**Also, in case anyone doesn't get the arrangement between Raoul and Christine, I'll explain it now; there's been an understanding between their families ever since they were little that they would be married when Christine was eighteen, and therefore unite the de Chagny family with Christine's father's estate, which is a pretty valuable one. So that means that, yep, Christine's an heiress, since her father's dead and all. So sue me. When her father died unexpectedly, in his will it said that she would go and live with Madame Giry, who was a widow by then, and a retired ballet dancer, who married a wealthy business man; so Christine was brought up to be a lady. Now that she is eighteen, she's being taken to the de Chagny mansion, to be married to Raoul in the late winter. **

**Got that? Good. I'm not telling you again, 'cos I'm just mean. Sadly, there's no Erik in this chapter. But those who love Erik should read it anyway, 'cos otherwise you won't understand who everyone else is later on, because I for one am not going to keep on saying 'so and so's sister' and 'somebody's brother in law' over and over again, because that is enough to drive anyone insane, plus it doesn't make good story writing.**

**Are you comfortable? Then I'll begin. Once upon a time…**

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**Arrival**

"I remember this!" Christine said excitedly, as she turned to Meg, who was watching the passing countryside with interest. "Meg! I remember this! Raoul and I used to go skating on the river when it was frozen; and Philippe and Celandine and Genevieve would come along as well on skating parties – it was wonderful!"

"It's certainly beautiful," Meg replied, turning away from the window – though she was smiling, Christine knew that she didn't really care for looking at the scenery; Meg was a city girl, born and bred, and one countryside was much like another to her. Besides, everything looked the same, covered in whiteness. But to her, it was reliving her childhood all over again, watching out for familiar sights that somehow seemed to call out to her, even though they were covered in snow. She gazed out of the window at the frozen river, cutting an icy swathe through the white landscape.

"Oh, Meg, I wish I was little again – then I could go out onto the ice again, and dance."

Meg snorted good-naturedly. "You? _Dance?_"

"Marguerite Giry, ladies do not snort," Meg's mother said from her corner of the carriage, without opening her eyes. "_Or _mock their friends – however playfully."

"Yes, mother," Meg chanted dutifully, but shooting a grin at Christine as she did so. Christine had to stifle a giggle.

"And another thing," the elder Giry went on, still without opening her eyes, "while we are on the subject; if you cannot think of anything polite to say to our hosts when we arrive, you will kindly restrict your remarks to the weather."

"Yes, mother." The two girls shared another look, and silently grinned at one another.

"And no grinning," Giry added, but now with the faintest hint of an exasperated smile on her lips. "If you do, I shall know."

_How does she do that? _Christine had no idea, and neither did Meg. It was just one of Those Things that the Madame was extremely proficient at.

Christine turned her gaze back to the view outside. _So long ago…at that time, I thought nothing could ever go wrong…_ "I really do wish I was little again, though. Then I could just dance and dance forever on the ice."

Meg sighed, and leaning forward tapped Christine sympathetically on the wrist. "You have to come off the ice sometimes, though – or you'll freeze." It was her basic, straightforward way of telling her, 'Enough dwelling on the past, it's time you got on with making your future', and Christine knew it.

She smiled, as she tore herself away from the window again. "Yes, I suppose so."

For a few moments, the two girls sat in silence. Madame Giry still appeared to be dozing, and they gazed quietly at each other, without saying anything. Christine enjoyed moments like this – when she could simply bask in the company of her best friend, and not have to say anything at all.

However, there appeared to be something wrong. After the few moments, Meg's pretty forehead wrinkled; her mouth opened as if about to say something…

But then she caught sight of something, on the very edge of the window.

"Meg! Meg! There it is!"

"Where?" Meg asked frantically, all thoughts of what she had been about to say forgotten, as she whirled around in her seat, trying to catch sight of it from her point of view. She laughed as the other girl squirmed as if she had had grass stuffed down the back of her neck – she knew all too well what that was like, as well as the convulsions on the part of the victim the action consequently caused.

"You'll never see it from there! Come here, you'll see better!" She pulled Meg off the opposite seat to squeeze up beside her; and the two girls gazed out of the window, shivering in awestruck delight as well as the slight chill in the air, as the carriage finished rounding the bend in the track, and the De Chagny mansion came into full view, across the frozen river.

"Oh, my…" Meg breathed in delight, then turned and shook her mother, disregarding respect for elders in her enthusiasm of the moment. "Mamma! Mamma! Wake up; you _have _to see this!"

Christine's gaze remained on the mansion they were now rapidly approaching. She fully understood Meg's wonder and awe, even after seeing the sight before them so many times before. At first glance, one might think the magnificent structure to hardly be real, a figment of the imagination. It almost resembled something out of a book of fairy tales; a mythical castle, only with none of the ridiculous adding's on that invariably came with it. A vast building, with a layout that anywhere else, in any part of France, would look sprawling, but here somehow managed to be perfectly in line with the natural landscape; it almost seemed to be a work of art, rather than a building. Whether summer or winter, the mansion – almost the palace – managed to look beautiful beyond any other structure, and imply the great wealth and power of the De Chagny family. Now, in the middle of winter, the mansion stood out against – and was occasionally trimmed with – the snow, like a rare jewel in a landscape of cold whiteness.

Madame Giry had by now been shaken 'awake' by Meg, and was regarding the nearing mansion with interest. "It is certainly pretty," she acknowledged.

"_Pretty?_ Mamma, how can you _say_ that? It's the most beautiful building I've ever seen! If _I_ had a house like that, I'd _never_ leave it, even in the winter!" Meg gushed, her eyes shining with appreciation.

"I'm sure Philippe will be glad you like it – and Raoul. They're very proud of it." And so was she, she realised, with a deep, warm feeling within herself. Even though it had been years since she had last come to the mansion, she still regarded it, in some tiny way, as hers. She had learnt to skate on its lake; she had played hide and seek with Raoul in its many beautiful rooms; she had watched secretly, with her playmate, at guests arriving for summer balls, the women dressed in glorious clothes – and she had longed, with all her heart, to be one of those beautiful women; to dress in spectacular clothes, and wear diamonds in her hair, and waltz throughout the night with a partner…

And soon, she would be qualified to do that.

"Oh, Christine!" Meg grasped at her wrist. "It's like…" she paused, for once lost for words – certainly an unusual condition for her! "It's like a…a beautiful…big…wedding cake!" she blurted out abruptly. The carriage rocked with Christine and Madame Giry's laughter.

"Laugh if you want; but it does look like a big white wedding cake, with icing!" she defended herself, laughing as well. "Oh, Christine; you're going to be a winter princess!"

"What makes you say that?" Christine asked, still smiling.

"It's a winter palace – and you're going to be a princess!"

"Not really," she replied, feeling the smile dropping away. "It's not a palace – and in any case, even if it was, it's not mine. It all belongs to Comte Philippe."

"Well, you never know. Things could happen…it could become yours!"

Christine shuddered – she loved Meg dearly, but sometimes her bold friend went too far. "I wouldn't want it if other people had to die in order for me to get it. No beautiful house is worth that much." She sat back in her seat, and tore her eyes away from the house – somehow, she didn't want to watch it any more.

"That is quite enough, Meg," Madame Giry cut in. "Go and sit back down; and don't talk about such things." Meg, silent, her gaiety for the moment wiped off her face, obediently sat back down in her original seat. After watching Christine for a moment she opened her mouth to say something, but a warning look from her mother shut her mouth very quickly indeed, where almost nothing else could.

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"Raoul, if you keep on pacing on that carpet for much longer, you're going to wear it out."

Raoul checked at his brother's friendly jest, but the next moment had continued his action with renewed fervour. Philippe cast a glance at Genevieve, who was seated beside the fire, and engaged in some obscure form of embroidery. They shared a knowing glance, as they watching their young brother reach the other end of the room, then turn and walk back towards them, hardly aware of what he was doing.

He did this once or twice more before Genevieve, looking up from her embroidery again, said in her quiet, gentle voice, "Raoul, do please stop. You'll wear yourself out."

"Good," he shot back. "Then maybe I won't feel so sick." He threw himself into a chair, and sat glowering at the fire.

Genevieve cast her eyes up to the ceiling, then returned to her embroidery – she was well aware of the boyish tendencies of her still not quite twenty younger brother, even though she had spent the last three years in Paris with her husband. She preferred to leave such matters to Philippe.

Philippe subconsciously seemed to recognise this role, and stepped forward from where he had been standing by the fireplace. "Raoul, I'm sure they'll be here soon – they're only an hour or so late."

"It's not that…well, not really." Raoul's gaze softened, as he stared into the fire.

The two elder siblings shared another glance. Raoul had been on edge for days and days, ever since the news had first come that Christine and her guardian and guardian's daughter had set out from their home in the far away city, to come here for the pair's wedding. Philippe could perhaps understand Raoul's nerves – the two almost children hadn't met since Raoul was thirteen and Christine was twelve, when Gustave Daaé had died; meaning Christine had been packed off to live with the guardian her father had chosen for her – one Madame Giry, a former ballet dancer who had been his deceased wife's best friend.

Now, the childhood friends would be meeting again for the first time in six years – only now, they would be expected to be married in only a few weeks from now.

Genevieve sighed, and set down her embroidery. She stretched out her hands to her younger brother. "Come here, Raoul."

Raoul, after a moment, obeyed, getting up from his set and walking over to her. She gestured to the arm of the chair – a seat that Raoul had long outgrown, but this occasion she judged to be an exception; and took his hand in both of hers, looking up into the eyes of the baby brother who had now grown taller than her. She said nothing- she didn't need to. It was simply calming for him, to sit with his elder sister, in comfort and in safety, as they used to do before they had all grown up, and she had married and gone away to live in Paris.

Philippe watched the scene with a contented air, as the frantic look gradually died from Raoul's face, to be replaced with one of peace. It was so rare now, to see such a look on his little brother's face. These days, he was either worried or anxious, or a combination of both, or sternly bland in the face of his elders.

_A curse on being an aristocrat,_ he thought. _He shouldn't have to be going through such things at his age._

The next moment, however, his train of thought was interrupted by the sound of the door of the room creaking open. Raoul at once leapt off the arm of his sister's chair, straightening his coat, and forcing a neutral expression on his face, just in case it was Philippe the Elder, come to see where they were. Genevieve too sat up straighter, a reflex born of years of hiding her natural warmth and compassion behind a mask of obedience and disinterest.

But it was only a footman in his customary livery in the doorway, panting slightly and bright-eyed.

"Sirs, Madame; Mademoiselle Daaé has just arrived!"

At once Genevieve was out of her chair, smoothing down her skirt automatically. Philippe cast a glance at Raoul's face; the boy looked as if he was about to choke. His sister, meanwhile, was speaking. "Very good. Tell her we will be down directly."

The footman nodded, and vanished.

Genevieve turned to Philippe, with a now rare smile on her face. "I had better go and find Grandpere, and Celandine – I think they're both with Bernard and Louis in the main drawing room. I'll see you down there." Without another word she was gone, a rustle of purple taffeta disappearing through the door.

Philippe turned to Raoul, to see that the youth had just sunk into the chair, and now had his head in his hands. Concerned he walked over to him, just in time to hear him say, "God help me; I can't do this!"

"Can't do what?" he asked, as calmly and quietly as he could.

"Go through with this!" Raoul hissed between clenched teeth. "I just can't do it!"

"Why not?" Philippe questioned. Raoul lifted his head from his hands, to glare at his brother.

"I can't just marry someone I hardly know!"

"You do know her. In case you've forgotten, you two were practically inseparable."

"That was six years ago! People change, Philippe! I've changed, for one; and I seriously doubt Christine's going to be the same twelve-year-old she was when we last parted." Raoul sat back in his chair, his face a mask of dread.

"So she'll have changed a little," Philippe said, trying to calm his younger brother. "That doesn't mean she hasn't changed for the better."

"What if it does?" Raoul asked listlessly. "What if she doesn't like me? What if I don't like her? She could have changed into some sort of snobby phony, like Celandine. Lord help me if she _is _anything like Celandine!" He buried his face in his hands again.

Philippe wasn't sure what to do on occasions like this. Raoul had never been in such a state of depression before. His education and years as the Comte de Chagny had momentarily deserted him; he was now just Philippe, comforting his younger brother on the day of his proposal.

The only thing he could think of doing was placing a sympathetic hand on Raoul's shoulder, and pulling him up gently. "We'd better go. They'll be wondering where we are."

Raoul let him lead him out of the room and down various flights of staircases, marble and wood alike, towards the drawing room where both the brothers knew his future bride waited.

"Feeling better?" Philippe asked anxiously, as they drew nearer and nearer to their destination.

The despair had drained out of Raoul's face, to be replaced with a blank, solid indifference. "Does it matter?" he asked quietly. "It won't matter what _I _feel about it; the wedding has to go ahead whether I feel on top of the world or as if I'm about to go down with a fever."

Philippe was, by now, more than a little concerned. "Does it _really _worry you that much?"

Raoul shrugged, as they walked on. "I don't know. It's odd; I've been preparing for this moment since we were both less than ten, and yet it's only now that I'm starting to have doubts." He turned to look at his elder brother. "I don't know about it being the marriage so much, as the fact that I'm expected to get married anyway, even if Christine and I had never met."

"Oh, Raoul." Philippe couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Don't tell Grandpere I talk like this. The Vicomte de Chagny is supposed to be stern, and noble, and indifferent to his wedding day, not doubtful and a bit afraid…"

Raoul gave Philippe the oddest smile, and turned away.

At length they reached the doors to the drawing room, with a footman standing beside them. Beyond the panelled wood, they could hear muffled voices. Philippe could recognise the voice of Grandpere Philippe, aged but still as smooth as ever, obviously inquiring. The footman was already opening the doors.

"Ready?" he breathed to Raoul.

Raoul's face was unreadable. "As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose."

The footman opened the doors, saying as he did so, "The Comte Philippe de Chagny, and the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny!"

In a split second, Philippe took in the occupants of the room. His sisters were seated by the fire; his grandfather was standing by the hearth, leaning on the mantelpiece in is customary stance which he himself had inherited; his brothers-in-law stood by the grand piano, a pretty blonde haired girl and an older woman were seated opposite his sisters, with Carlotta standing behind them – and, standing in the middle of the room, even now turning around to see who was entering, was the most _beautiful_ girl he had ever seen…

And, judging by Raoul's face, as he shot a quick sideways glance at his brother, she was the most beautiful girl _he _had ever seen, as well.

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"And did you travel far today, my dear?"

"Not very far, sir," Christine answered truthfully, lowering her eyes respectfully, as she walked only slightly more slowly than her usual gait, so as not to be rude and outdistance the elder Comte.

Comte Philippe de Chagny the Elder, the grandfather of the current Comte de Chagny and Raoul, was approaching his eightieth year; but the years, though cruel to him in many respects, had at least not laid their mark upon him. At seventy-nine his hair, though now grey, was still elegantly streaked with darker strands of the colour, implying the shade his locks had formerly employed; and the few lines on his face owed nothing to artifice. He still looked as if he was no older than sixty at the very least; and the only trace of feebleness he gave was the slight limp in his left leg – but then again, he had had that for as long as Christine was able to remember. He had not changed at all in the six years since she had last seen him, but then again, that was hardly surprising –six years was a long time for her, but a relatively short time for him, considering how long he had lived.

He now led her, limping slightly as always, into the large, expansive drawing room, which she remembered well. She saw, with secret delight, that the enormous grand piano still stood in the corner; perfect for practising scales or the pieces of music she had learnt in her years with Madam Giry.

However there was no time to examine it further, since already she, Meg and Madame Giry (whom the Comte had greeted politely in his customary gentlemanly manner when they had first stepped into the great entrance hall of the mansion) were being introduced to all those who were seated in the room. Genevieve and Celandine, the sisters of Raoul and Philippe, were the first to be mentioned; Celandine, who had somehow seemed to grow quieter and more subdued in the years since they had last met, simply inclined her head to her; but Genevieve had actually come forward and clasped both her hands in hers, and for a moment the expression of severity elapsed from her face, to emit a warm smile. Only for a moment, but it was there; and Christine was grateful – already she was feeling out of depth in this strange, familiar, new, old world, and it would be good to have at least one person she could speak to, even if Celandine had lost her former friendliness.

Next she was brought to pay her respects to Genevieve and Celandine's respective husbands. Genevieve's spouse – the tall, handsome Count de Charbourg – made her a graceful bow, and kissed her hand respectively. The husband of Celandine, a swarthy, slightly shorter man, whom she understood held the title of the Comte du Barry, kissed her hand as well; but she had the feeling, as his lips touched her skin, that, had he been allowed, he would have let his lips linger and perhaps move further up her arm. She had seen his sort before in Paris, the ones with various beautiful women on their arms, depending on the season; and she had more than an idea that he might have one or more mistresses hidden away in various country and town houses. She now understood the potential reason for Celandine's surliness and silence – to live a life of being supplanted by mistresses could in some cases be a living hell. She hoped fervently that such a fate would not be hers.

_But where was Raoul, anyway? _

Even as she thought that, she was being introduced to a girl of about her age; Carlotta Gudicelli, a Spanish cousin of the Comte du Barry by marriage, who had come to France to find a spouse by the wish of her mother; and had been brought to the de Chagny mansion by her cousin in hopes of finding a potential, rich mate at the forthcoming wedding. Christine privately doubted, despite her efforts to keep a generous mind, that that would happen any time soon; Carlotta did not look like the sort of girl that would easily attract any nobleman. Not that she was unattractive – on the contrary, she was very striking, with her distinctive black Spanish eyes and her glossy dark hair, although her slightly jutting lower lip left something to be desired; and she smiled good-naturedly at Christine when the Comte brought her forward. But she looked much too independent to be chained to a nobleman of any sort, who, by her limited experience, seemed to prefer women who were meek and compliant and did as they were told. Carlotta gave the impression that, if any man ordered her about, she would not only refuse to obey but throw a fit into the bargain.

Secretly, Christine wished that she had such confidence.

At length, everyone was seated after the introductions, except she and the Comte, who took up position by the fireplace, and regarded her with a benevolent air. It was almost as if she were part of the family already.

Or so she thought, until he began to ask her and Madame Giry questions. Where had they lived for the past six years? In what part of Paris? Near the opera house? And what has Mademoiselle Daaé been learning in all that time? I _see. _History _and _maths? And what other subjects? Very good, very good. And the arts? Ah, yes, dancing? Not too much of _that_, I hope?

And what sort of company have you kept? Close acquaintances? Balls? No balls? Ah, well, so much the better. Any male interest?….

And so on and so on and so on. On the surface she was smiling, but inside she was cringing; it was as if the Comte was suspecting Madame Giry to be prostituting her on a regular basis, or some such revolting thing. So she had danced a little? Ballet was not a crime, and she had danced when she was younger, and no one had thought the worse of her for it; but apparently when you hit puberty, in the Comte's view, ballet immediately made you some sort of whore. And when he had asked Madame Giry straight out, without even glancing at her, if there had been any _followers _on the part of Mademoiselle Daaé, for a moment she thought she might burst out, and tell him exactly what she thought of him. Certainly out of the corner of her eye she saw Meg tense in her seat, as if preparing to spring at the Comte; and only a swift restraining hand on her shoulder from Carlotta saved her, though the Spanish girl too looked furious with the Comte, or at least as far as she could see. Fortunately neither the elder man nor Madame Giry noticed; and the latter replied politely, without a trace of annoyance, in the definite negative, though inside Christine could obviously tell she was boiling pitch at this evident insolence on the part of the Comte.

She herself didn't think she could take much more of this. She was tired already, and it was almost unbearably hot from the log fire in the hearth – how could he _stand _to be so close to it? - she felt that if she didn't sit down soon she might faint.

But suddenly the doors behind her opened, and all eyes turned to them, including the Comte's. She did not dare turn, even though their eyes were no longer on her; but the next moment the voice of the footman came, and cast a thrill through her heart.

"The Comte Philippe de Chagny, and the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny!"

As if in a dream, she turned to look at the newest arrivals. Philippe stood in the doorway, grown much older than when she had last seen him, though still recognisable as the almost elder brother of years before; handsome though slightly cold faced, and gazing upon her with a look of surprise, though not displeasure.

And standing next to him was Raoul…

* * *

"_Horrid_ old man!" Meg raged, storming around the bedroom, still furious about the interview of earlier. "How _dare_ he speak to you and Mamma like that? As if he thought you'd been rolling in the hay with every stable boy from here to Paris! And as if he thought Mamma brought you up to be perfect material for some sort of _mistress!" _She flopped down on the bed beside Christine in a very unladylike manner, exhausted from her fuming. "I swear, if that Carlotta girl hadn't held me back, I'd have made him sorry!"

"It's probably just as well she did hold you back, then," she replied, from where she was seated on the bed. "It won't do to offend the Comte at this stage – or do him bodily harm."

"Oh well," Meg huffed, as she sat up. "I suppose it must be if you put it like that. Still, I don't know why he thinks that sort of thing is acceptable."

"He's a Comte. They're obsessed with keeping the blood line clean. And he clearly only wants the best for Raoul," Christine said, doing her best to keep Meg calm. When the younger Giry became really angry, she kept on for hours; and she really didn't need an infuriated Meg at the moment.

Meg, despite her annoyance, could not help giving a giggle, as she turned to smile at Christine, her eyes shining with companionship now, rather than anger. "Oh, Christine! He's so handsome! Why didn't you _tell_ me he was so good-looking?"

"I honestly hadn't thought about it. It's _Raoul; _he was more like a brother to me than anything else."

Meg grinned saucily, in a way that would certainly have earned her a reprimanding look from her mother had the latter been present. "Well, perhaps now he'll be more than a brother to you, hmm?"

She pushed her away, in mock disgust. "Meg Giry, at times you really are the most…"

"Christine, you're going to _marry_ him in a few weeks anyway," Meg protested. "And from what I saw of your face when he first came in, I think you won't be so averse to performing the act."

Christine turned her head away. "I can't imagine what you mean."

"Don't you hide your eyes from me, Christine Daaé. I saw your expression." Meg now smiled a smug smile, that to her seemed like the cat that had, by certain cunning devices and artifices, obtained the cream. "And I saw _his _face as well. If ever I saw love at first sight, it was then."

"I don't think I believe in love at first sight," she replied quietly, still not looking at Meg.

"Well, you're in a place that, despite what you say, I believe is a palace," Meg said brightly, as she pulled herself up off the bed. "You're as beautiful as a princess, and the Comte a wicked warlock; and Raoul the handsome Prince Charming. What better place for it?"

Christine sighed. "What better place indeed?"

Meg squeezed her shoulder affectionately. "That's the spirit. Come, we'd better get ready for dinner – this will be the chance for you to wear one of the new gowns they sent you."

"Yes," she agreed absentmindedly, running her fingers over the elaborate embroidery on the counterpane, allowing Meg to pull her up, and over to one of the trunks, and her chatter to pass over her head. Her mind was on much more important things than talking.

Only an hour ago, she had seen Raoul again, after so many years. And how he had changed! Gone forever was the scrawny, slightly gangling boy of nearly fourteen; and in his face was a young man, with an open, honest face, and the eyes that she remembered so well. And the look on his face as he had laid those eyes on her at the same time…the thought of it still made her tremble; with what she did not know.

She hadn't even noticed how handsome he had become during the intervening years until she and Meg had risen to be escorted to their rooms, and he had risen as well, and kissed her hand. Only then, as they had looked at each other, in the moment between his looking up from the kiss and her being whisked away, had she been aware of just how attractive he was. And his eyes…so full of wonder, and awe, and almost joy…

Christine sighed, as she allowed Meg to begin to pull off her outer garments. Things were already becoming complicated…

* * *

**READ! REVEIW! PLEASE!**


	3. Reunion

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera. Pity, 'cos if I did I'd probably make _this _idea into a film, because I think it's so good. Oh well, ho hum.**

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Once again, I must disappoint all you avid Phantom lovers – Erik _isn't_ going to appear for at least another two or three chapters or so after this one, while I set the scene of Raoul and Christine's engagement, and all that sort of stuff that you lot hate, and R/C fans love. Anyway, technically there isn't much for Erik to do at the moment, since he's basically _dead_-dead at this point, instead of just dead, as he will be later on. In any case, when he _does _come in, he's going to dominate pretty much every scene he's in; so I'm making the most of when he's not around, I guess.**

**Also, I think that some of you might be feeling that Christine's is acting pretty cold towards Raoul at this moment – or if not cold, then at least distant. Well, what did you expect? The girl hasn't seen him in six years; and now they're expected to get married in a few weeks. Added to this is the fact that she's diving into a relatively new world, and fears of 'drowning', so to speak. Don't worry, emotion will come out – in fact, there's already some chemistry between them. It's very controlled, of course, since this is the nineteenth century – but it's there. It's there! And it'll increase as time goes on.**

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Reunion

Raoul gazed feverishly at himself in the dressing table mirror, as he distractedly straightened his bow tie. Though with his eyes he saw his reflection, in his mind he saw only the beautiful face of his childhood friend, now grown into womanhood.

_Christine…_

The short, slightly chubby, sweetly petite girl of six years ago had gone forever, to be replaced with a tall, graceful young woman, and an extremely attractive one at that. But at first he had hardly been aware of that; he had instead been caught and held by her gaze, as she had turned around to look at him.

At first glance her eyes seemed hardly to have changed at all since she was a little girl; they were still the same gentle, chocolate brown orbs that he remembered, shining with vibrancy and life when skating on the ice or playing together; but at the same time so different – so much older, so much sadder, so much wiser. The vibrancy and life, the innocence of youth was still there, but now present was regret, and sorrow as well – and a certain amount of resignation.

He had hardly remembered what had transpired after that, save that he had risen to kiss her hand when the girls had risen to be escorted to their rooms. And after the quick, respectful kiss, when he stolen the chance to look at her directly – he had not dared to after the first sight of her – she had been looking down at him with her beautiful brown eyes filled with some strange emotion – what was it? Surprise? Reluctance? Acceptance? Could it have been…affection?

Could she actually come, in time, to _love_ him? Love him as a husband, rather than just a friend from childhood? He had never thought that, when – if – he and Christine eventually married, they could ever love each other as more than brother and sister. When they had played together as children, they had always been aware of the fact that they were, in essence, betrothed; but it had never occurred to them, while they were still together, that there would ever be anything other than infant attachment between them. When they had read stories together, of princes and princesses, they had never imagined that such romances would be theirs.

But now, here they were, on the eve of their official engagement; and he felt as if he had butterflies in his stomach – though not necessarily in a bad way.

_Is she thinking in this way? Would she – could she be thinking of me at this moment?_

For a moment, he indulged himself with the thought of Christine at her dressing table, brushing her long, dark brown curls – those she had retained from childhood as well – looking at herself in the mirror. It was a nice image; but was it a reality? And were the thoughts he wondered of in her head as well?

There was a quick knock on the door; immediately afterwards it opened. Raoul didn't even need to turn around to see who it was.

"There is such a thing as waiting for an answer to a knock _before_ you come into a room, Philippe," he said, without bothering to turn around.

"It saves time" the older de Chagny stated bluntly, as he strode across the room to where he stood by the dressing table. "Hurry up; you've got to be at the table – and it would be _terrible_ bad manners to arrive late and after your future bride, wouldn't it?"

Raoul grimaced in a mock nature, as he turned away from the mirror. "You do know how to ruin an evening, Philippe."

"Ah, but I doubt the evening will be ruined for _you_, little brother," Philippe replied jokingly, slapping him hard on the back. "From what I've seen, you might enjoy this dinner more than any other in the past few days."

"And why would you think that?"

"Well for one thing, you'll be able to examine a certain pair of chocolate brown eyes a lot more thoroughly without running the risk of getting caught."

That was too much for Raoul. "I can't imagine what you mean." Even as he spoke stiffly, secretly he was worried. Had he made an idiot of himself? Was everyone aware of him staring at Christine? What must she herself think? All his anticipation of the evening slipped away as if the carpet had been pulled out from under him.

Philippe patting him on the shoulder; more gently this time. "There's no need to be offended. I saw how you looked at her – and how she looked at you. I should forget your worries about her not liking you – hers eyes fairly lit up when she saw you." The older brother smiled at the look on his younger brother's face.

"Really?" Had her eyes lit up? He hadn't noticed, and those had been what had caught and held his attention. But then again, maybe he was too preoccupied with examining the new factors in them…

"Come on, Raoul," Philippe said, taking him by the arm and steering him out of the room. "It's dinner time; and you must seat your future wife at the table."

* * *

Raoul leant against the window frame, and gazed through the window out over the cold, white, dead grounds of the family estate. Normally he would stand straight and tall; but he was taking advantage of the fact that no one was paying attention to him, for once, and not continually hold himself as stiff as a board.

Of course, if Grandpere was looking at him now he would not be pleased. But at the moment Grandpere was in the adjoining room; was listening, with the others, to Carlotta sing, and play the piano. That was one of the reasons why he was in the next room – although Carlotta could play the instrument proficiently enough her voice, while initially good, was nowhere near as proficient as her playing. She made it work far too hard, and consequently the effect was often enough to make one cringe slightly, however polite one was.

They had been subjugated to various recitals ever since Carlotta had first arrived, about a fortnight ago now; but since they were all so _very _polite, because of their upbringing, none of them had told her that though they were happy enough to have her play, they would prefer it if she did not sing quite so loudly. So Carlotta continued to belt out tunes at her full range, and those who listened to her continued to cringe.

But Raoul would have been perfectly willing to sit through yet another recital, were it not for the fact that Christine was seated right opposite him. That he would not have been able to stand.

He had made a fool of himself during the dinner; after seating Christine, as her future husband, he had continually cast glances at her across the table, when he believed her not to be watching, simply to have a chance of seeing her beloved face. But their eyes had inevitably met; and from the way she had looked at him had been enough to make him choke on his mouthful with surprise. Consequently he had had to be hit hard on the back by Philippe to stop him from choking on the half chewed fillet of beef; and in the process his hand had unconsciously flown out and he had knocked over both his fairly full wine glass and a candlestick; only the very swift action of Bernard had saved the whole table from going up in flames. He had, understandably, been so embarrassed he hadn't dared to meet Christine's gaze again for the rest of the dinner – or the recital afterwards.

_What must she _think _of me? What kind of dolt does she think she's getting for a husband? _His cheeks still burnt with shame when he thought of it – not least the fact that Meg, her friend, could not stop giggling, even if it was silently, for some time afterwards, and was constantly whispering in Christine's ear, and glancing at him unashamedly, before turning back to her friend. And they expected him to stay calm, with that sort of background? They obviously did, judging by the glares Grandpere shot him throughout the rest of the dinner, and the disapproving expression Philippe had worn as he hit him on the back; and how Genevieve had sighed, if only once; and the way Celandine had shaken her head, and hidden her eyes with her hand as if she couldn't bear to witness the spectacle anymore.

He looked up at the stars outside, and reasoned to himself that somewhere, out there in the wide world, there must be someone who currently was more mortified and embarrassed than he was.

He wondered idly who it was.

Behind him the recital was over – for which he gave a silent breath of relief and thanks – and there came the customary, though slightly strained, applause; then a murmur of voices. He feared for a moment that there might be an encore; but for the moment the music seemed to be over. He could hear the clinking of glass – there was obviously a topping up of glasses among the men. He did not regret it – his few experiences with brandy had always left him feeling ill; and he was glad to have a few moments of relative quiet, by himself.

So it was all the more surprise when he suddenly heard Christine's voice, quite close behind him, say softly, "Do you think the fairies will come tonight?"

He started, and swiftly turned around, to find that Christine was standing almost right behind him, her head tilted slightly to one side; dressed in one of the gowns which Genevieve had picked and sent off for her as a present, a wonderful creation of wine coloured satin, which left bare her milky shoulders, and emphasised the darkness of her hair; the faintest of smiles on her lips.

For a moment he was so distracted by her sudden appearance, and her closeness, that he was hardly aware of what she had said. "Wh…what?" he said stupidly, realising even as he spoke how ridiculous he must sound to her.

"The fairies," she persisted gently, drawing closer to him. "Do you think they will come tonight?"

He had had time to get a grip on himself, and to realise just what she was talking about. "I don't know," he replied, as seriously as he could. "As you no doubt remember, I never could see them. You always managed to, though; that I do remember."

She smiled in reply. "That I did. Perhaps they were simply more willing to show themselves to me than you."

"Am I supposed to feel complimented by that?"

"It depends on what you believe," Christine replied, drawing closer to him, and looking out of the window herself, as if half expecting a sprite or Korrigan to come flying up to the panes to oblige her. "For example, if you were anything like Comte Philippe the Elder, you would probably be mortified by seeing them – it would mean you had surely lost hold of your senses." After a moment's silence, she turned to look at him; the light of the stars in her eyes. "But I believe I saw them because I wanted to see them."

"What about me?"

"Did you want to see them enough?"

Raoul had no reply to that. Truth be told, he didn't want to reply; by doing so was increasing the chance of breaking this moment of tranquillity between them. He leant back against his side of the window frame, she against hers, and they both looked out at the white, silent world beyond the panes of the window.

Eventually, however, he felt he had to speak. "Did you miss us?"

Christine, smirking, removed her gaze from the view to look at him. "You mean, did I miss you?"

"Well? Did you?" he asked, with a smirk of his own. His embarrassment was quite forgotten by now.

The girl was silent for a while. At length, she said slowly, and more quietly than before, "Very much at first; as much as I missed my father, even though I knew I would see you again eventually. But…" She hesitated, before going on. "Meg and Madame Giry were there for me, and I learnt to get on with my life. And…well, I suppose that, out of sight…"

"…out of mind?" Raoul supplied gently.

Christine bowed her head in acquiescence. "Indeed." She looked up at him, her jovial air now gone, as her sweet face filled with anxiety. "Raoul…I'm sorry if you're offended…"

Raoul had to work hard not to laugh – not at her, though; at her needless anxiety. "I have a confession to make. I hardly thought about you for the past few years as well."

She smiled again. "I never thought I would be glad to hear such words. It shows you just how unpredictable life can be, doesn't it?

"Indeed."

There was another long silence between them; longer even than the first; they stood now almost side by side, gazing at the stars.

But at length Christine said, gently, but with a certain air of mischief in her tone, "You're still embarrassed about the business at dinner, aren't you?"

"I'd hardly thought of it in the last few minutes – until you brought it up. Thank you."

She laughed. "I am sorry! If I had known, I wouldn't have said anything."

"That's all right. I'm glad that at least one thing about you has stayed constant – you _still_ don't have a great amount of tact."

She pouted her lips in mock annoyance. "Oh, well then I will say that I am glad to know that _you_ are still clumsy and accident-prone."

"Touché," he conceded. "But apart from that, we are basically starting all over again."

"What do you mean?"

"We've spent six years apart, Christine. Six years to grow, and change, and alter the way our lives work. Six years to overcome, now that we are together again." He gazed at, and slightly down at, her. "In some ways, we are complete strangers to each other. Tomorrow I propose to you. In a few weeks we will be married. Two almost children, as husband and wife – and almost strangers into the bargain."

"So what will you do?" she replied, playfully mocking, or so it seemed to him. "Profess undying and unending love to me? Fall down on one knee, as in story books?"

Raoul considered this. "Would you like me to?"

That made her laugh, from deep in her chest, almost like a set of scales being sung. "Oh, that is certainly every romantic girl's dream of an ideal proposal – but I am not sure if it would be mine."

"Then shall I simply promise that when married, I shall devote myself to being a good husband and striving for your happiness?"

Her smile softened. "I believe that would be acceptable, Vicomte."

He returned her smile. "I am glad you accept, Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Mademoiselle Daaé!" Comte Philippe the Younger's voice rang out from the adjoining room, making them both turn to face the direction of his voice. "Carlotta has sung enough for now – won't you indulge us with your voice?"

"_Oui,_ Comte Philippe, but of course" Christine replied smoothly. She smiled up at Raoul. "Will you hear me sing, Raoul?"

"_Oui,_ Christine, but of course," he mimicked her. "After all, with your help, I have quite overcome my fatal embarrassment." He inclined his arm. "May I escort you, Mademoiselle?"

"Of course, Monsieur," she replied, slipping her own arm through his, as they set off back to the drawing room; the hands of the linking arms unconsciously clasping once more, as they had done so many years before.

* * *

Madame Giry looked up as the two young ones entered the room again, Christine on Raoul's arm, and their hands evidently clasped, for anyone who cared to look. She had to work hard to hide a smile as Raoul proceeded to lead Christine over to the piano, before releasing her to sing, and walking over to sit by Celandine on the sofa opposite her. The accident at supper, apparently, had done nothing to harm the situation after all, judging by the look they shared just before she took her arm away from his.

And now, as Carlotta began to play – now that the girl was no longer singing, she was able to appreciate her playing, and to realise that she was, in fact, quite good; a shame about her voice though – she saw that the young Vicomte was now making no effort to hide his eyes from Christine – though even if he had been ashamed of being caught gazing unabashedly at her it would surely not be now, since everyone was watching the girl.

And when Christine began to sing, she saw that while her voice poured out around the room, and washed over all its occupants, her eyes, while roving the room and her audience, would always return to him, and meet his gaze with her own, and not break it off for ages.

Giry smiled softly, and shook her head. _Young love…_she knew the two deserved their happiness; but she was glad, surrounded as she was by impetuous, deceptive youth, that she herself was no longer young.

But she must not let herself get too caught up in the flow of events; for she knew that if guard was let down on anyone's side, disaster would occur. Tonight the dear child would sing, and she would be content; but from the moment of the official engagement tomorrow, she would not be off her guard for an instant.

_I must keep an eye on him…_

Carlotta played. The candles burnt. Christine sang.

And the pair gazed.

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**REVIEW! PLEASE! IT'S GOING TO BE GOTHIC, I PROMISE!**


	4. Mazed and amazed

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, or Tim Burton's Corpse Bride. For those of you who don't know what the latter is about, look below.

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IMPORTANT! REPEAT, IMPORTANT! IF YOU DO _NOT _WANT A POTENTIAL SPOILER OF MY STORY, LOOK AWAY UNTIL THE CAPITALS COME BACK ON! **

**I am aware that some of those who read this phic will not be aware of the plot of the Corpse Bride film, which this is a crossover of. Recommend you go to the official website for the trailer. **

**But, if you want a basic run-through of the plot of the film, so you have some idea of what I am implying with my story, I can give you this, without – hopefully – too many spoilers of my own story.**

**The film is set in Eastern Europe, rather than France, and has Victor – voiced by Johnny Depp – about to marry his fiancée, Victoria – voiced by Emily Watson. In the practice for the wedding, Victor basically mucks up his words, and the pastor – voiced by Christopher Lee - refuses to go through with the ceremony, which is due in a few days, until Victor learns his words. That night Victor goes out into the woods, to practice. He says his words perfectly, and even goes so far as to slip his wedding ring onto a withered stick poking out of the ground.**

**Unfortunately for Victor, the stick is not a stick at all; it is in fact the rotting finger of a young bride – voiced by Helena Bonham-Carter - who was murdered and laid to rest there; this ties in with the anti-Semitic ways of that era, when Jewish wedding parties would be ambushed on the way to the synagogue and the bride killed to prevent her bearing future generations of Jews. Since Jewish tradition dictates that a person be buried in the clothes they died in, the brides were often buried where they had been slaughtered, still clad in their blood-splattered wedding gowns.**

**Anyway, the Bride is ready to take up Victor's offer, and become _his_ bride; consequently whisking him away to the underworld. Though the afterlife is certainly a lot more liberating than his own restricted upbringing, Victor is determined to get back to the world of the living, and to Victoria, who is still faithfully waiting for him. **

**When I learned of the plot of the film, it just seemed to speak to me of this story. I mean, one desired person, two desirees; one not quite so pretty – the Corpse Bride has been dead for quite some time, and consequently has lost the flesh on her left arm and her right leg, though her remaining leg is apparently very attractive, and apart from some slight decay on one of her cheeks has a whole and relatively pretty face – and one quite boring, no offence Raoul lovers – Victoria is very prim and proper; though as time goes on she becomes more desperate and daring in order to get Victor back, which again ties in with Raoul.**

**All in all, with a little adaptation, I believed it would make a good crossover. It would also answer a question which I have been meaning to ask all on the forum for quite some time – would you _still _love Erik if he was _actually_ dead? Not a ghost, not a vampire – just dead. With some bits missing – not too many, but enough to warrant the onlooker feeling just a little squeamish.**

**Well, would you?**

**FOR ALL THOSE WHO WERE LOOKING AWAY: YOU CAN LOOK BACK NOW! I REPEAT, YOU CAN LOOK BACK NOW!**

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Yep, a bit more R/C fluff; only this time it's going to be back story in face of our own little ballet brat – only in this she's not really a ballet brat as such – because I think it's boring if I write from the same point of view and the same vein all the time; so it won't be quite so fluffy. Never fear E/C shippers and Erik phans; I have _not_ forgotten you, and Erik will soon turn up. Oh, it's gonna be _so _good when he does! But I'll make you wait, because I like getting people all expectant. It leads to more appreciation. If I gave everything to you on a silver platter, would you keep coming back for more? Well? **

**So, further musings on life, the universe and everything – well, perhaps not that, but certainly her friend's marriage, as well as other situations, from Meg Giry. Enjoy!**

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**Mazed and amazed**

As a girl brought up in Paris, Meg was used to seeing opulence and splendour in magnitude. In walking or driving about the city with her mother and Christine, she had seen vast buildings and structures designed to imply the great wealth of those who owned or had commissioned them. And while she and her mother were perhaps not quite so well off as some of the aristocracy, her late father had been fairly wealthy, and had left them a substantial fortune, which Mamma had moderated so they had had enough to live off in comfort, and a little more, and a fair amount would be left for her dowry, when she got married – though in her opinion it was more _if _she should get married. They had some servants, of course; not too many, but enough to make sure they were fairly well attended, and few enough to make sure they were not wasting money. Meg knew the names of all who lived in their household in the fairly moderately sized house; but that did not mean she did not appreciate wealth.

On the few occasions when she had been inside really grand houses - when her mother had taken them to meet acquaintances and old comrades in the dancing profession who had likewise married into fortune, or various ladies who wished to meet Christine as the heiress of the Daaé estate, and she had been brought along as well - she had been impressed by the magnitude of richness she had seen around her. And perhaps sometimes – only sometimes, but still – she had wished that her mother would hire a few more servants, so that they could be waited on hand and foot like the fine ladies she had seen, wearing silks and satins, and lounging on chaise lounges; so that she could hold feathered fans languorously in her thin, white, graceful hands – or at least the hands she wished she had, instead of the slightly plump, small-boned ones she seemed to have inherited from her father - and be so wealthy she hardly ever had to get fully dressed, because no one would care if she was fully dressed or not.

She supposed this was because she bore the curse of being both practical and a hopeless romantic, sometimes at the same time.

But nothing she had ever seen or envisioned had ever compared to _this _– this mansion, this _palace_. As she made her way down one of the many, many staircases in the building, she was able to marvel once again at all she saw around her; one girl in a new world unlike anything she had ever witnessed or even dreamed of, and first of all at this room which seemed so gigantic the ceiling seemed miles above her. This outdid anything she had seen before in every way – and yet at the same time, it was nothing like she had seen before. In Paris gold and gilt reigned supreme; sometimes she was amazed at how much gilt the architects and craftsmen had managed to get into their designs. There was gilt here too, but somehow it carried a far different weight from the designs in Paris. In the city the buildings and designs were often so top heavy with all the wealth implied, it became almost – not vulgar, that was not the right word. More…excessive. There was so much of it that you almost got tired of it; even slightly agonised.

But here, whatever was used to accentuate the beauty of the place was not repetitive. This whole house was fresh, despite its age; a new delight at every corner, a new wonder to be marvelled at with every new room you entered. And there was this room; this room which contained this marvellous staircase; the walls crafted from a gorgeous pale stone she could not name, and the ceiling created from the same material, carved intricately so as to almost resemble some beautiful sort of natural lacework. Meg marvelled as she reached the bottom of the stairs, craning her head backwards so that she could examine the ceiling further. _How had they managed to build a ceiling so high?_ The only ceilings she had ever seen with this much height was the one in the opera house, the one time she and Christine had been taken to see an opera, and the high ceiling in Notre Dame cathedral. But there the roofs had had something to hold them up, while here there was no evident sign of any support for the ceiling. How then had it been managed? However it had been done, the man who had designed it must have been a veritable genius.

At length she tore her gaze away from the ceiling of the room – she had more important things to do than admire the architecture; though it said a lot about the design of the building that she would be willing to spend the rest of the day savouring the whole mansion; she for whom architecture usually held as much fascination as arithmetic.

Once again, as she hurried out of the room, pulling on the fur stole she had brought form Paris, she felt a deep, wondrous awe at this whole building and the grounds, and once again felt a deep flow of happiness that Christine would be marrying into a family with such property and such fortune.

_Lucky Christine…_

She gave her mind a little shake, as she made her way along one of the corridors. She shouldn't be jealous of her friend, just because she had a handsome fiancée and a rich family to marry into and a beautiful house to be entitled to; she really shouldn't. She should be happy for her. And she was. She was so happy for her that that was what made her jealousy hurt all the more; there was always that undercurrent of envy that she just could not help, no matter what she did. It was not so much an emotion as a way of living, of existing; the desire to have just something that someone else did not have; a talent or a feature, a possession or perhaps just knowledge. And right now Meg wished, for one scandalous second, that all this could be hers; hers and not Christine's; that she could be a princess, and walk through this palace, knowing it to be her own rightful property. For one moment, she felt as if she would do anything to be allowed to live here forever.

But of course nothing she could do would ever win her that right; and she should not envy Christine, because Christine most likely would not reside here after her wedding, but go to another house with the Vicomte. This house belonged to the Comte, and no other. So Meg did her best to forget her child-like desires, and concentrated on the main issue at hand.

Which was; where was Christine? After the breakfast they had had only a short while ago with Mamma – in yet another marvellous chamber, with a charming floral motif – she had gone to her friend's room, expecting to find her there, and had instead found the room empty, and her outdoor garments gone from her still partially packed travelling cases; so that meant outdoors. _But why? Why, when you could stay inside?_ At any rate, she was going to find her. They hadn't had a chance to talk properly since before dinner last night; and she had a strong desire to ask her just what she and the Vicomte had been discussing.

Anyway, she was sure she wouldn't have gone very far. Breakfast was but a few minutes finished, and Christine never walked very fast, so she would soon catch her up.

Or at least, she hoped she would, if she ever managed to find her way out of the huge mansion.

After ages of walking along various corridors, she had to admit what she had been denying for the last while; she was lost. This house was beautiful, but it was a veritable maze; she had no idea where she was now. She had a vague idea she was near the dinner chamber they had eaten in last night, because she had walked along a corridor which had look out onto a room seemingly sculpted out of black marble that vaguely resembled that particular room, although she hadn't stopped to check – but that was no good to her, because that was miles away from any entrance to the grounds. And that was ages ago!

_Brilliant. Lost in this vast house. How will I ever find Christine now?_

Suddenly, in an entrance to a wide, circular room, she saw a window a little up ahead of her. That lifted her spirits slightly. From there she could see exactly where she was in the house, judging by what floor she was on, and what she could see from the window outside.

She made for it – and then stopped, in puzzlement. She had run quite quickly across the room, and yet the window still seemed to be as far away as it had been before. Perhaps it was just some illusion –a trick of the light? More cautiously, she made her way forward again, a few steps – and then a few steps more. The window appeared to be no nearer than it had been before; and yet by now she should have reached it. What was going on?

Whatever it was, she had no desire to know. Somehow this place felt strange to her. She turned to go away, and started to walk back the way she had come. But after a few moments she definitely knew something was wrong. By now she should have been back in the corridor she had come out of, and yet she was still in the same room she had entered.

She looked around fearfully. There didn't seem to be anything strange or mysterious about her surroundings; and that was it. Somehow, this simple room managed to strike chills into her simply by being that – a seemingly quiet, innocent room.

_I want to get out of here. Now._

Once again she made for the corridor – and once again got nowhere. Why couldn't she get out of the room? She was trapped – trapped here. How could she get out?

She forced herself to remain calm. Of course she could get out; why would this sort of room have been built in the house? It was obviously just some sort of trick room – something to impress guests with. She of course didn't find it all that funny. But surely there must be some way out?

But after a few more attempts to find a way out, she had to admit she was at a loss. No matter where she went in the room, the environment simply stretched away from her, into oblivion. She tried to fumble for some – any – hold on a physical object, but she could find nothing; nothing at all. It was as if the only real thing in that whole room was herself.

Eventually, she stood in what she thought was the middle of the room. She was hot now; but not from her running – rather her fear. She was trapped. Trapped…

"Help." Her voice came out as a sort of treble; but gradually grew louder. "Help! _Help!"_

There was no answer. She was all alone. She was never going to get out; never going to…

Abruptly, a click made her whirl around. The impossible had just happened; a _door _had just opened in the wall, out of nowhere. All she could do was stand and stare in amazement.

After a moment, a face peered around the edge of the door. That face was enough to make her shut her mouth, which had opened in amazement, at once; for it was the face of Comte Philippe the Elder. But that did not mean she was not surprised to see him – although at the moment she was more relieved than anything else.

He, clearly, was no less surprised to see her; his elegant grey eyebrows arched high over his equally grey eyes. "Mademoiselle Giry? What are _you _doing in here?"

"I…I was looking for Christine," Meg stuttered, knowing what a fool she must look, hot and sweaty and with her hair in disarray, clad in outdoor garments and a fur cape which was hanging off her. "I…I must have gotten lost and…I found my way in here, and I couldn't get out again."

The old man gazed solemnly at her for a while. She did her best to look sincere while also trying to stop herself from flushing any more than she already inevitably was. At length he nodded, and said, "It is fortunate that I was passing by, and happened to hear you, Mademoiselle. Otherwise you might have been in here all day – hardly anyone comes by here these days, and even fewer who know the secret to this room."

"The secret?" she asked, tucking her hair back behind her ears, and doing her best to look ladylike again.

"Yes; the secret of its illusions." The Comte stepped forward into the room, making her dart forward in alarm, all ladylike pretences abandoned in a moment. If the door should close…

"Fear not, Mademoiselle," the old man said calmly, catching her wrist and holding it gently, but with surprising firmness for one of his age, "the door will not move. Now, let me show you."

Gently but irresistibly he turned her around, to face one of the walls, with her back barely against his chest. "What do you see?" he asked softly, his head close to her ear; almost murmuring, his breath tickling her ear.

She shuddered – _horrid old man!_ – but made an effort to appear controlled and refined, despite the situation, and gazed blandly at the wall opposite her. When she had been trapped she had not really paid attention to the decor; but now that she had hopes of getting out she was able to examine it more closely and calmly.

"I see a panelled wall," she stated. "Made of dark wood. Carved in a floral design."

"Anything else?"

She checked at this, and cast another suspicious glance at the wall. "Not that I can see. Why? Should there be?"

The old man made no answer; he instead grasped her wrists with his own hands, and pulled them up in front of her in one swift, fluid motion, so that for a moment he encompassed her with his own arms. The moment was so brief that she barely had time to be outraged before his arms were gone again, leaving hers stretched out in front of her; and he gave her a gentle push on the back, making her step forward, saying softly as he did so, "Walk forward."

There didn't seem to be anything else to do, so she took a few steps forward, and then another few steps, expecting every moment to feel the woodwork at her finger tips. However, when the eventual pressure came, it was not the raised grain of wood she was expecting, but instead smooth, and cold. In surprise, she jerked her fingers back.

"It's all right," came the Comte's voice from behind her. "Do it again."

She looked back at him, searching for any amusement in his face – but he was regarding her with an air of benevolent interest. After staring at him for a moment, she turned her attention back to the strange wall in front of her. Stretching out a hand, she touched a finger to its surface, and felt once again the strange surface, which appeared to be wood, but was in fact something else entirely.

_What is this?_

The answer suddenly came to her, like a flash of inspiration. "It's a mirror."

"Very well done, Mademoiselle Giry," came the Comte's voice right in her ear – he had somehow managed to come up right behind her without her hearing. "The whole room is lined with mirrors. See?" Taking her hand again, he guided it along the smooth, cold, deceptive glass, until her fingers found a slight line – very slight, but enough to show her where two mirrors joined together.

"This is amazing! But why don't the mirrors reflect us?" she asked in her excitement, running both her hands up and down the seam, forgetting for the moment her apprehension of the Comte in the face of this new wonder.

"They are all angled to reflect a specific point in the room," he explained, seeming for once to be genuinely pleased, in showing off this treasure. "You see, if you put anything at that point, the mirrors would reflect it all around the room, making it seem as if there are hundreds of the said item. In this case, it is the illusion of a wooden wall which is replicated."

"But what about the window?"

"Ah; well that is on the original wall – fake, of course – but the mirrors are angled in such a way that the window is not shown."

Meg looked around in new awe. This room, which seemed so big, now seemed at the same time to be so small – it was truly incredible. "It is wonderful. Who designed it?"

It was as if the light had suddenly gone out of the Comte's face, to be replaced with the customary shadow. His voice, when it came, had lost its fervour, and was the old, dry tone. "Somebody." He inclined his arm to her stiffly. "I think perhaps we should leave, Mademoiselle Giry, if you wish to find Mademoiselle Daaé."

She couldn't think of anything to do but take that arm, however it repulsed her, and be led out of that strange, marvellous, mysterious, chilling room, the door shutting with a snap behind them.

* * *

The cold air was frankly a relief to Meg, as she stepped out into the bright sunlight, and heard the crisp snow crunch under her boots. Of course it was not _much _of a relief, considering her arm was still tucked firmly under the Comte's but it was a start. 

"I take my leave, Mademoiselle," came his voice suddenly in her ear, making her start – he had not spoken since they had left the mirror room, and she had had no wish to start a conversation. But he had led her down to an entrance to the grounds, and for that she was thankful, if nothing else. She hurriedly slipped her arm out of his, now he was no longer holding onto her so tightly. She still wasn't sure about the Comte; although he had rescued her from the strange mirror room, he didn't give a great aura of friendliness, and had paid no more attention to her htan as if she was some sort of ornament on his arm.

_Horrid old man!_

He was gazing out across the grounds, his grey eyes slightly narrowed. "Besides," he went on, "I believe Mademoiselle Daaé is not far away – just over there, in fact." He pointed casually with a slightly rheumy hand; and she followed his gaze to where a dark shape was making its way along, away from the house.

_How did he know? How did he see? _But already she had gabbled "Thank you, Comte," and was hurrying across the snow, pulling her fur hood over her head and slightly lifting her skirts so that they should not get damp; racing after the shape up ahead.

The cold air tore at her lungs, and the wind whipped her cheeks; but she felt invigorated as she broke into a run. She was sweating again inside her clothes and furs, but she did not care; she knew she wasn't behaving like a lady and she was glad, glad, glad.

Opening her mouth she called out, "Christine! _Christine!"_

At once the shape ahead of her turned around, to face her; and she was able to make out the features of the Vicomte, with his head bare but bundled up in an overcoat. But before she could have time to feel mortified or to slow down, another shape emerged from behind him; and it was Christine, wrapped in furs and with her hair covered with a lace veil.

At once she picked up the pace, not waiting to call out for them to wait; and they paused in their walk for her to catch up. When she reached them, she had to bend over for a moment, clutching the stitch in her side, and gasping for breath, but physically and mentally invigorated.

As soon as she was able to speak without gasping she looked up at the two of them; Christine was smiling, but the Vicomte looked uncertain.

"Well, here was a surprise!" she said brightly, straightening up and doing her best to straighten her clothes as well. "You were gone right after breakfast, Christine; and I had no idea where you were!" She shot a smile at the Vicomte. "And now to find you were out walking with the Vicomte…"

"We were just talking…" the young man said, uneasily. Meg almost felt like giggling. So funny! But so sweet as well. The way he looked so anxiously at her and Christine!

"Raoul wanted to show me the grounds," Christine cut in gently. "Apparently they've changed a lot since I was last here…although I must admit; it's rather hard to tell the difference with all the snow…"

"Well, don't look at me. All landscapes are the same to me; I know no difference."

"I am sorry to hear that, Mademoiselle Giry-"

"Meg."

"I'm sorry?"

"You are going to marry Christine, Raoul," Meg said seriously, looking him straight in the eye, "and Christine is like a sister to me. In her marrying you, you give her up as a sister – so I will willingly take on the role. So, we must address each other as siblings." She batted her eyelashes at him, smiling her special, befuddling smile, which she had perfected over the years.

For a moment, Raoul looked lost, while Christine stifled a giggle into her furs. But after the moment he smiled softly, and putting out his hand took hers, and looked solemnly into her eyes. "I see your point, Meg. I shall be glad to gain such a sister as you."

"The pleasure is all mine, Raoul." She shook his hand. "Now, what were you saying?"

"I was about to say that I am sorry to hear about your opinion of the countryside. The grounds may not be very fine at this time of year, but in the spring and summer they are beautiful indeed." He inclined his free arm to her. "Perhaps you would allow me to escort you round them?"

She hesitated. "I would not wish to intrude upon you two – if I'd known, I wouldn't have come out…"

"Come, Meg," Christine said gently, from where she held Raoul's other arm. "IF you want to Raoul's sister, you had better get t oknow his heart. And that starts with his family's estates."

"I _do_ think you're rude, Christine," Raoul jokingly complained, but with laughter in his eyes. She marvelled. _Are these the two who could hardly make eye contact yesterday lest he choke and she be mortified? Time does fly._

She smiled, and took his arm. "If you don't mind at all?"

"Not at all," he replied firmly, pulling her close, so they could both cuddle against him. "Where shall we go?"

"To the lake?" suggested Christine. "Are the boats still there?"

"One of them sank last year; but it was rotten anyway."

"How do you know?"

"Because I was sitting in it, that's why."

Meg looked past the two, at the great expanse of woodland beyond the lake. "Why don't we go down to the woods? Not right now, of course; I should like to see them."

Their laughter had stopped. She turned back to see the other two exchanging a glance, before looking solemnly at her.

"What's wrong?"

Raoul cleared his throat. "Nobody goes down to the wood these days."

This sounded absurd to her. "Why ever not?"

"I don't know. I do remember that when we were children, we were told that a murderer had been killed there, and buried without proper ceremony, so his ghost haunted the woods."

"And you believe this?" Meg demanded, turning to look at Christine.

The other girl shrugged her shoulders slightly. "I don't know. It certainly worked when we were children – I think it was an effort to stop us from wandering off on our own."

"And what about now?"

Raoul looked thoughtful. "As I said, no one goes down there now – at least, as not as far as I know. I don't really know why. It's – ingrained, I suppose. Almost a legend. All the villagers believe it; they're so superstitious they'd believe anything."

"But do you believe it?"

He sighed. "I believe it's not the sort of wood anyone should like to take a turn in. No one's ever been inclined to actually go in. There's no law against it, and my grandfather and brother have never forbidden them, they just – don't. And we don't either. But would you like to go down there?" the young man went on, attempting to be affable.

Meg looked down again at the wood. Somehow things which had managed to escape her eye first glance now came to her line of vision – the darkness between the trees, the shadows that were created; the coldness, the stillness, even more so than the rest of the landscape.

"No," she said, slowly, "I don't think so. It doesn't look like the sort of place one would visit in the wintertime at any rate." She turned to look at them. "Shall we go to the lake?"

But they were not looking at her, they were looking at the lake in any case – but their eyes did not rest upon it. Christine's head was upon Raoul's chest, Raoul's chin rested upon her head, and his arm had somehow managed to slip out from hers and around her shoulders, and held her close; and she held close to him.

Meg, mildly amused but at the same time touched, gently slipped her arm out from Raoul's, and padded carefully away. She would wait until they woke up, so to speak, and then ask if they wanted to go down to the lake – but until then, she would wait a little way away, so as to give them some privacy.

She allowed herself a small sigh. Truly this was a fairytale, of sorts, and of epic proportions. A magnificent palace, an evil warlock – she shuddered as she thought of the Comte's arms around her shoulders – mazes, magic rooms, a screeching siren – she smiled at her classification of Carlotta – and the two customary lovers. _And me,_ she added as an afterthought. _The odd one out._ She sighed silently but wistfully.

_And, _she added mentally as she cast a glance down at the wood, _a ghost at the bottom of the garden as well. Or so it would seem._

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**Mominator124: Erik will soon turn up, I promise you! Otherwise there's not much point in this, is there? See top of the chapter for a quick run-through of the Corpse Bride Story - hope I didn't ruin it too much for you. I hope you understand now!**

**SiimplyElymas: I think she's sweet as well! Sweet and innocent in a dark environment! How dark? Ah, you'll have to wait and see! I liked the fairy business as well - I wanted to call the chapter Away with the Fairies at first, but there wasn't enough reference to said fairies for that to work. Erik will be along soon!**

**Kat097: Welcome, faithful reviewer! I wanted to show R/C to empahsise the terrible choices Christine will ahve to make in time! Be reassured, there will be E/C, hard though it may be to believe at the time. I haven't decided how it will end yet - watch this space! I write good? YAAAAAAY!**

**Moonjava: And once again, glad you like.**

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REVIEW, ALL YOU WHO READ THIS! ERIK _WILL _COME! **


	5. Late Risers

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, or Corpse Bride. I'd love it if I did, but I don't. So there.**

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Moonjava: I am glad you like it. Do you feel anything else about it at all? Anything at all?**

**Willow Rose 3: Wow, you're enthusiastic! I've never had someone be so desperate for more that they did two posts in two days begging for it! Well, here you are. And there is Erik in this episode! Rejoice, for the Chosen One shall rise! Not that there's going to be anything like that in this, of course. Yeah; it's gonna be neat!**

**MetalMyersJason: How could I have killed Erik? Quite easily, actually. I wrote that he had a sword wound and…oh, wait, I see what you mean. Well, for this story to work someone had to actually be dead, otherwise there's not much point, and since Erik was often described as a 'living corpse' and this thing is called 'Corpse Groom', albeit it in French, I thought it might as well be him. And he shows up in this chappy, so don't release the demons, please! I like my face! It's not very pretty, but it's MIIIIIIIIINE!**

**SimplyElymas: Yeah, I wanted Meg to not just be a cute little dancer. So she'll know some stuff other people don't that will become quite important in later chapters. Nadir will soon show up – though, like I said, not where you expect him. I like fluff as well – though not E/R, that I agree – it makes me feel so warm and fuzzy!**

**Mominator124: Really? That's funny. I mean, I'm flattered that you think that, but I must confess I've never actually read Susan Kay's book. I have the basic idea of what happens in it, of course, but I haven't read it. SHOCK! HORROR! Ah, poor Erik. I'm really torturing him in this. Well sort of; you can't torture someone much when they're dead. Or can you? MOO HA HA HA! Sorry. Just thinking of all the things that will happen. No problem about the Corpse Bride stuff. Now you will be able to appreciate my story more. And that's always excellent.**

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Take heart, people! There is Erik in this chapter! And also, an introduction to my version of Carlotta. Enjoy her musings over croissants and hot chocolate.****

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Late risers

Carlotta blew on her chocolate to cool it, and then took a deep draught from her cup. The rich, hot, sweet but at the same time slightly bitter liquid flowed over her tongue, filling her mouth with the wonderful flavour. Sighing internally with delight, she took a bite of her current croissant, and then another sip of chocolate, and felt the pastry melt upon her tongue. Breakfast late in the morning, with all these delicious treats, in the beautiful breakfast room, sometimes made up for this foreign land, although not quite. Though she had drunk chocolate at home, eating croissants alongside it was a new luxury, and even better than back in Spain. It was one of the few things she liked about her new life in France.

It had been two and a half months since she had arrived in France, in Marseilles; and that had been time enough for her to think of all the reasons why she hated this country. She hated the cold, the wet, the damp, the snow; the way some types of rain never truly rained but instead drizzled in your face and got into your garments and soaked through to your skin no matter _what_ you did, which somehow was worse and more irritating than a full out shower. She hated the cold, bare landscape, when you could look out of the window and see nothing but varying shades of depressing grey or white as far as the eye could span. She hated the food; though in time she had grown accustomed to it she mourned the memory of customary dishes served at home, and simply could not bring herself to touch some items on her plate, especially after that unfortunate incident with the oysters. She hated the dull evenings when you had to stay inside, because it was simply too dark to do anything outside; and she hated the excessive amounts of clothes she had to wear in order to stay warm. In Cádiz they wore as many clothes in the winter as the people did here in the summer; and she hated the way the cold had seeped into her bones, giving her chills and coughs and colds for the first month she had been here.

She hated the way she was adopting a French accent while hardly aware of it; and often emphasised her own natural one, simply so that she would not forget it as easily as that. She hated the way everyone, for a while at least, at the beginning of her stay here, had spoken to her slowly and condescendingly - _as if I didn't have the faintest clue what they were talking about! _- and as if she didn't understand a word of French, when she understood the damned language better than they understood Spanish, she warranted.

She hated having to be here in the first place. She hated having to leave warm, sunny Spain, and her house in the countryside around Cádiz, and her family…

And she certainly hated the consequential feelings her time in France had caused concerning her family.

_Mi familia…_

It wasn't even as if she liked them very much, in practice at least. Oh, she was certainly fond of Madré, even if her attention was now mainly taken up with little Pedro and Juan -_ the bueno heirs_ - and Padré was fine as long as he wasn't around too much, and provided her with ample sheet music and made sure the instruments were kept in tune and she had new dresses when she needed them. Katherine was really quite sweet; but she was much too good for Carlotta's own liking, never doing or saying a thing wrong; and she was too young to be any fun, really. And Rocío – _the chit! - _was, to put it mildly, a little squirt, never to be happy unless she was teasing or irritating somebody; namely her, since she was the person who put up with it the least before erupting into shouting and blows, and then she ran to Padré's side and told tales on her – of course she had _always_ been his favourite, even being given their _abuela's _lovely name – and _she_ would be the one to be reprimanded and scolded, while Rocío purred like a satisfied cat, grinning at her from behind Madré or Padré, gloating in her position as the favoured daughter. Of all the things she believed she would miss when she left her homeland, she had never even considered that her brattish, spoilt, _stupida_ _hermana menor_ would be among them.

But now sometimes she felt she would do anything to be allowed to go home again, back to Cádiz; go home to help Katherine practise her catechism, and play hide and seek with Pedro in the garden; play the piano in the evening and sing loudly enough to get everyone protesting, instead of just grinning politely and painfully as they did here; even to endure Rocío's teasing about her hair and her need for a corset to keep control of her bosom and stomach, the latter despite all Madré's predictions having still retained a layer of puppy fat, no matter what she did; though her absconding from eating much of the food put before her had helped to diminish the aforesaid fat a great deal, she had to admit.

But of course she had agreed to come here in the first place; and there was no backing out of a bargain. If she had known what she was letting herself in for she would never have come, but that could not be helped now. She had made her bed, and she must sleep in it. Or whatever the saying was here.

All the same, she couldn't help thinking of home, in the long afternoons of playing in the music room or wandering around the beautiful but lonely mansion; thinking of her own house in the south; certainly smaller but definitely warmer, both in temperature and in atmosphere. It was January now; in only a month or so it would be Katherine's tenth birthday, and soon after that she would take her First Communion…and she wouldn't be there. If Madré's plan succeeded she wouldn't be there for Pedro or Juan's First Communions either. She wouldn't be there for one of the most important days in her younger siblings' lives, and there was nothing she could do about it. She had, after all, agreed to it.

She supposed it was the boredom that was making her think like this. After all, being shut up in various houses with no one her own age to talk to was beginning to tell on her, antisocial though she was – she much preferred practicing her music or reading to talking. But since she was rather less fluent in reading French than understanding it and she had typically forgotten to bring many of her own books with her – she had sent a letter to Madré saying she was well and asking her to send her favourites, but she hadn't received a reply as of yet – books were out of the question, and you could only do so much practice before you got tired of that as well. She might well die of cold if she went outside too much, and there really was nothing else to do, unless she counted the embroidery she had found tucked into one of her travelling cases, evidently by her mother. She, however, did not count that. She would never be _that _bored.

Of course, she had not been completely alone, or without people her own age. She had been forced into tight corsets and dragged to various balls, and flung into the paths of various Comtes or Counts or Vicomtes, some much older than her, many her age, one younger than her, only just sixteen to her eighteen years, and only dancing because it was his birthday and the ball was held in his honour – she suspected that that last partner was because her guardians were becoming slightly desperate. And they had every right to be. After all, the reason she had been brought to this wretched country in the first place was so that she would gain a husband; and so far the only thing she had gained was various colds and a relatively mild, though certainly unpleasant, case of food poisoning when compelled to eat those oysters. She rather had the feeling her _cherie_ relatives, as the people here would put it, were beginning to despair of ever finding her a suitable mate.

On the whole, Carlotta was not sorry. From what she had seen of French society and the way various males had looked over her as if she were a horse to be bought or sold, she was much better off being out of the marriage game, and out of marrying into the French aristocracy in general. It seemed to her that most French men thought it acceptable to obtain a rich wife and then sleep with as many other women as possible. Such a practise she would hardly have believed until she came to this degenerate country; but then France was very different from Spain. Of course the Comtes' Philippe the Elder and Younger were always very respectful to her; and she enjoyed talking to Vicomte Raoul – he was honest enough to wince at her singing, and she was drawn to him because of it, in a strange way. If circumstances had been different she might have allowed herself to become attracted to him; but from the first time she had met him she had been made to understand that he was betrothed, and so off limits. She didn't really mind. She doubted he would have been attracted to her – so few other men were, with her blunt manner and her loud voice.

Earlier, in previous days, he often came into the music room to hear her playing before her breakfast, for some reason she could not fathom at first – so few people sought her out to hear her music, though they applauded it at the time – but as time went on she came to understand that he came for her company rather than her music. He too was bored, cooped up in this house, waiting for his fiancée to arrive; and now that she had arrived he had abandoned their by now routine to go out walking with her instead. But she did not begrudge him for her; nor Christine. To tell the truth, she was rather glad for her own reasons that Mademoiselle Daaé and Mademoiselle Giry had come to the mansion; at least now she would have some people to talk to who were the same gender and age as her, and didn't look as if they were about to burst into tears whenever you so much as glanced the wrong way at them, as Celandine did.

_And while we are on the subject…_

Louis had at that moment walked into the room, his face set in a scowl. He checked at the sight of her, and made a hurried bow.

"_Pardon, _cousin. I didn't think you would be up so late."

"_Buenas dias, mi primo. ¿Que tal?" _she replied blandly, secretly gleeful at the annoyed look that flashed across his stupid face as she spoke. "I have been up since half past seven, actually; but we are not all so late risers as you."

Louis forced a smile, and sat down opposite her, not meeting her gaze. Carlotta smiled softly into her chocolate. Louis hated it when she spoke Spanish; he had never bothered to learn the language even when he was young, and consequently was eternally suspicious that she was insulting him without him knowing it; never mind the fact that he should at least be able by now to tell when she was saying 'Good day, my cousin. How are you?'. _He certainly wouldn't put it past me. _And she wouldn't put it past herself either. She might be a relative fish out of water in French high society; but she still knew how to be one of the most irritating girls in the world. _To special people, of course._

She watched over the rim of her cup as he now loaded his plate with brioche and croissants, and began to slather the latter in butter. She was barely able to suppress a shudder, and looked quickly away, so that she wouldn't have to watch him stuff a buttered croissant into his mouth, watch him chew it, watch the crumbs and butter stick disgustingly in his moustache. It was enough to put her right off enjoying her chocolate. Louis, to her at least, never looked more unattractive than when he was eating. Yet some women – many in fact – she knew, found him incredibly attractive; and seductive, or so it would seem by the amount of females he was rumoured to have bedded. _I know they say love is blind, but they must be suffering a complete sensory depravation._

Louis was yet another of the things she hated about France; the country would never be able to redeem itself in her eyes for turning out him and men like him. She was profoundly glad that they were kin only by Louis's sister's marriage to one of her cousins. If she had actually had any relation to him in blood, she probably would have killed herself by now, rather than live with the mortification of it. He was odious in every way to her; not least because of his lechery. She could still remember the humiliation she had suffered at his hands when he had offered to escort her to a ball and she, though reluctant, had accepted, out of politeness and an attempt to get on with him. Little had she known the real reason behind his offer; for a joke and seemingly to get back at her for giving him a headache by deliberately singing too loudly the day before, he had made sure that she had spent the whole night dancing with many of his more lecherous and not always single comrades; as if she were fine material for some sort of mistress.

_The bastardo, _she thought, as she sipped her chocolate quietly, resolutely not looking at her breakfast partner. That night had been an attempt at a severe blow to her pride; and while she would readily admit thatshe was certainly more wilful and aloof than other girls, she was not about to have it broken by a lecherous, adulterous, greasy Comte of a cousin.

"_Never let them break your pride. Remember, sometimes it will be all you have left to you. They can do what they can, but if you remain tall and proud you will never be defeated. So never let them break it, mi hija." _That was what Madré had said, the last time they had seen each other, as her bit of parting advice. And she knew it was good advice. Her mother, for example, had never been broken. From the beginning she and Padré had been equal in the marriage, and shared power in the businesses he held, because of her strength and independence. If Madré told her such a thing, she was not stubborn enough not to listen to it.

She raised her cup to her lips. _Here's to you, Madré, _she thought, as she tossed off the last of the chocolate.

As she set the cup downshe happened to look out of the window by the table; and her gaze was caught and held by what she saw outside. Three figures were making their way across one of the lawns, and even from this far away she could make out the distinctive golden-brown hair of the Vicomte. She could not make out the others, but she guessed – by the amounts of furs wrapped around them, as well as the skirts – that Raoul escorted two ladies. And she didn't think they were his sisters – Celandine spent most of her time sewing or reading, and Genevieve was still recovering from a cold she had had the week before.

For a moment she sat considering; then suddenly she stood up, pushing her plate away, and turned to make her way towards the door. Louis looked up from buttering another croissant.

"Where are you going, cousin?" he asked.

"Out," she replied, with pointed briefness.

The man raised one slanting eyebrow. "I can see that, Carlotta; out where?"

"Out_side_."

He didn't say anything else; but his expression said, very plainly, _What, you?_

_Yes, me, _she thought primly, as she turned away without another word, and walked to the door.

Now, if only she could remember where she had put the furs _prima_ Diane had bought her in Marseilles…

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From the window he watched the young Spaniard, well wrapped up in furs to protect her Southern skin from the nose-reddening cold, tramping out across the crisp white snow; following in the footsteps of the other three.

"What is it?" Genevieve asked, as she sat by the fire – although she had gotten over her cold, she still preferred to have a roaring fire in the room, for the moment at least.

"Carlotta's out in the grounds."

She looked up from her book, the surprise evident on her face. "Carlotta? Are you sure?"

Philippe chuckled as he looked away from the window. "Is that so surprising?"

"Well, you know she hasn't been outside for once since that one time you showed her around the grounds. I was beginning to think she wouldn't set a foot beyond the doors until the thaw."

"Can you blame her? I can't; I can barely stand the temperature sometimes, and I'm not even from Spain. Heavens knows what it's like for her." He cast another glance out of the window; she had now caught up with his brother and the girls, and they seemed to be in discussion. "But it would seem that she's been lured outside now."

"Christine and Raoul?" Genevieve asked, this time without looking up from her book.

"And Mademoiselle Giry."

"The young ones together again; and with new companions to make up for those lost to them." Genevieve sighed, as she sat back in her arm chair, and looked over at her brother. "Sometimes I wish I were young again, Philippe."

"You are young."

"I mean younger. Of an age with them again. I feel like an old woman sometimes. Certainly I have felt like one with Carlotta around the past two weeks. She makes me feel aged and decrepit, without meaning to. She's much too lively for me; she needs people her own age around her." She sighed again, as she looked down at the pages of her book, held open on her lap, and gently ran her fingers down the page she was currently on.

"What are you reading?" Philippe asked kindly, trying to distract her from her present seemingly gloomy thoughts. If she got into the same mode as Celandine there would be no hope for her.

"Hmm?" She blinked, then looked down at the book and smiled. "It's just something I found in the library earlier."

"Well, that certainly narrows it down," he joked, moving away from the window, having watched the four young people now set off together. They both knew that the library contained a vast amount of books, such that it might almost take a lifetime to read, amassed and collected by the great wealth of the de Chagny family.

"I don't really know what it's called," Genevieve confessed, holding it up for him to see. It was handsomely bound in red leather, but it had no type of title that he could see; the cover and spine were both blank. "It has the most beautiful poetry in it, though. Oh, and it has the strangest message at the start."

"What do you mean?"

"Read it and see."

Keeping her page with one finger, he flipped to the front of the book, and found on the title page, instead of a title, a short passage, written in carefully printed but still slightly scrawling letters:

'**In memory's golden casket, **

**Drop one pearl for me.'**

**Erik.**

"Isn't it lovely?" Genevieve asked, looking up at him with warmth and love shining in her eyes. "The poetry's wonderful as well, but I don't know if they were written by the same person."

"Yes," Philippe agreed softly, as he still stared at the words. "Quite lovely. Quite a find."

At that moment, the door opened, and a footman came in. His eyes alighted upon Genevieve.

"Pardon, Madame; but Madame du Barry wishes to see you. She said it was important."

Genevieve sighed, pushing herself up and out of her chair. "Very well. I will be there directly."

He nodded, and was gone.

She looked at Philippe. "How odd; why would she want to see me? She's been keeping herself to herself these days; I've hardly been able to get a word out of her."

"Perhaps her wanting to talk again is a good sign?"

"I hope so. I will see you later, Philippe." And she went out of the room.

He, left all alone, walked back to the window; but the four figures were by now down the hill and out of sight.

Suddenly, he was aware that he still held the book, open on the title page, with the words visible. He shuddered, and closed it firmly; then walked out of the room, with it tucked under his arm.

Was curiosity a sin? Was it something to be reprimanded in certain people? He did not know the answer to that. But it might raise questions; questions which he would not know the answers to and did not need answering. Only a little curiosity could be fatal.

A single kiss woke up the Sleeping Beauty in the wood.

He was going to pay a little visit to the library.

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Spain is a very Catholic country, in most places, and even more so in the nineteenth century;and first communion, being a very special occasion in a devout Catholic child's life, was even more so in Spain at that time. The children would be given enough presents to rival Christmas, and it was considered one of the most important events in their lives.**

**_Rocio _is a Spainish girl's name - it means dewdrop.**

**_Abuela _- grandmother.**

**_stupida hermana menor_ - speaks for itself.**

**_bastardo_ - likewise.**

**_Mi hija – _my daughter**

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Oh, you're all going to _kill_ me, aren't you? Well, to be fair, I _said_ Erik would be in it – just not how, or why. And in this, I hope I have created even more mystery. I also hope I've made you like my Carlotta. She's certainly not going to be perfect; she will be a bit like her stage, book and movie self – but not enough to make her a bad person. And she will have an important part to play in the way things turn out.**

**So, I sign off; and hope you don't come looking for me in a Punjab mob – whish is the same as a lynch mob, except you use a Punjab lasso instead of a noose. Gets it over with quicker.**

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READ! REVIEW, PEOPLE! MAKE THE SEAMSTRESS SMILE!**


	6. Beyond Life

**Disclaimer: I don't own either of them. Do you think I don't know that?**

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Willow Rose 3: Aww, I'm SO sorry! I mean, getting you all excited, and then fobbing you off with that itty bitty reference! But seriously, it was to get more people interested – though I don't people are very interested in this. I mean, five chapters and only eighteen reviews? No, wait a minute – guess people are quite interested! Not as much as I'd hoped, though. Well, this chapter is for you. Yes, Erik is definitely in this one – cross my heart and hope to die. Please forgive me?**

**Mominator 124: Yeah, I am evil, aren't I? I apologise. Thank you for not wanting to Punjab me, though, if only for your own selfish reasons. I know about Erik being nearly killed to stop him building other palaces – though in this story, he got killed for quite different reasons. Not because he's Jewish, though. I am not anti-Semitic in any way; it's just that Erik is not Jewish. Here is the next chapter. Forgive me?**

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I've been a bit of a stinker, really, getting up peoples' hopes and then bringing them crashing down. As an apology, here is a chapter entirely Erik! (And for SimplyElymas there is some Nadir as well.)**

**So, muse on the thoughts of our beloved Phantom – really a Phantom, in this case…**

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Eventually I began to desire more. What I found strange was how much I desired to know what I had not known on Earth. I wanted to be allowed to grow up.**

"**People grow up by living," I said to Franny. "I want to live."**

"**That's out," she said...**

**I could not have what I wanted most: Mr. Harvey dead and me living. Heaven wasn't perfect. But I came to believe that if I watch closely, and desired, I might change the lives of those I loved on Earth.**

**The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold.**

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**Beyond Life**

_Someone was reading the book…_

_Someone was walking through the corridors…_

_Someone was weeping in the Louis Philippe room…_

_Four were walking across the grounds…_

He ran his fingers over the keys, pounding out old melodies and new tunes that had come to him in the years since his death. There were quite a lot of those; it had been a long time since he had died.

Died. Once upon a time he would not even have known the meaning of the word. When he was a boy, and growing up, he had thought he was immortal, as all boys did. When he was in his teens, he had had so much to think about that death never even crossed his mind, despite all his morbid thoughts. When he was a young man, it _had _crossed his mind, more than once – but he had never thought it would be his own. It just didn't seem possible that his life would suddenly end. But ended it had, in a way he would not have dreamed of, despite all his thoughts and hopes and dreams. Especially his dreams…

Dreams were mostly all that were left to him now; dreams and memories of his past life. After all, what else was there to do but dream of what had been? It wasn't as if he had anything else to live for – or rather exist for, since living wasn't really an option now. In dying, he had learnt the meaning of eternity; and the harsh lesson did not comfort him in the slightest. It only served to make him more desperately desiring some other way out.

Nadir was impressed that he had kept this resolve for so long. Apparently Nadir himself had been much of the same frame of mind when he had first died; but in the years since that had happened – even Nadir was not sure of how many, since time seemed to stretch on and forever in the Land of the Dead – he had grown accustomed to his new way of existence, and accepted his state of being. By the time _he_ had come down there, Nadir had all but forgotten the Land of the Living.

But _he_ had not. He could not. How could he, when he had died in such a way, in such mortification, as a result of such treachery? How could he when he had been murdered just when he thought life was becoming good to him? How could he forget, when he had all that to remember? And so he remembered. And he burned.

It was strange; in life he and Nadir probably could never have been comrades; but the circumstances they had been thrown together in had endeavoured to make them friends; since life couldn't. The older man had attempted to comfort the younger in the times when he had almost broken down with sorrow, futile though those attempts might be; the younger had been grateful to the older for his help, even if it was in the end futile. It was Nadir who had first given him the source of comfort.

"_This is not all that there is, you know,_" he had said, gesturing around him.

"_It isn't?"_ he had replied. Such a thought had never occurred to him.

"_No. Heaven, as they say, is where you make it; and though this is not Heaven, we make it where we find it."_ Nadir had smiled, seeing him look for once at a loss. _"Come with me."_

And so he had taken him, and shown him what could be made; as a message that he could make his own way, even though he no longer had a life to make. Inspired, he had taken up the task, and surprised even himself by what he had created.

_And yet now…_

He looked around his surroundings, as he followed this train of thought, breaking off from his music; looked around that which he had created by the strength of his will and mind. Even Nadir had been impressed, and he himself had been astonished – at least at first. Such a creation he could hardly have dreamed of in life; a tribute to the scope of his genius, freed at last from the restraints of mortality. Yet now it was his; it was all his. No longer did he have to build for patrons or on orders. He was free now, to build for himself.

_And yet now…_

He turned back to the organ, discarding his creations with barely a glance. That which he had once desired now held no savour for him. How could he continue to delight in it, knowing that it would never leave him? And if he chose to build more, that would stay for him forever as well. For he now knew the meaning of eternity.

And he remembered what he had had, and how it had all been taken away from him.

Nadir was worried about him, he knew. As far as he knew, it was not like spirits to hold onto their memories like this; not like them to remember for so long. He had made well meaning attempts to help him let go; well meaning but futile, for they only served to remind him further.

"_People have been betrayed and murdered before," _his friend had said. _"I myself, for one. Yet in time they have accepted what they have become, and the way in which they became it. Why can you not do that, Erik?"_

"_Perhaps because in being betrayed I was robbed of everything that might have been mine; and in being murdered I was robbed of everything that could yet have been mine."_ And to that of course Nadir had had no answer.

"_What more do you want, Erik?" _he had asked another time. _"What do you desire that you cannot have; that you cannot find here?"_

"_To live again."_

"_That is not possible. You know it is not."_

"_I know that. That doesn't prevent me from wanting it, though."_

Yet in truth that was not all that he wanted. He had all that his un-beating heart could desire; and yet that which he desired the most he could never have; to have his heart beat again in his chest, and to touch real flowers and feel the wind upon his face; and to hold another in his arms against him and feel her heart beat in time with his, and look into her eyes and see passion burning in them-

And for Philippe to be lying in his shallow grave in the woods, with his own sword thrust through him.

Though he knew the last could not be remedied – though he often wished it - he had done his best to find outlets for the other two, under Nadir's advice. He had designed and written and composed, crafted and built and structured, pouring out his genius to surround him, having form at last in more than his mind. Music he had written; music enough to fill ten lifetimes; songs, verses, ballads, sonatas, arias enough to be the basis of a thousand different operas. Pictures he had painted; relative masterpieces, echoing all that he had seen and known in the Land of the Living, holding on desperately to his memories of his time on Earth; he had designed houses, palaces, theatres, monuments enough to populate the world and make it so fair all would glory at the beauty and wonder that had been revealed.

And yet no matter what he made, it did nothing to ease the ache in his being; for he knew that such dreams would never be realized; that such creations would never go any further than the vast, sprawling Land of the Dead; trapped forever in a type of limbo that went on for all eternity.

And as for his other desire…he had realized, long before, that what he truly mourned was not so much the touch of a woman's flesh as the desire for his bride; the bride he had never seen and whose wedding he had never attended, and whose fate he did not know. How then to rectify this; to quell his desire for something he did not know, and could never now achieve – for the living could not marry the dead.

In the end he had decided, at least, to visualize what his disastrous wedding might have been like had he been there; and the bride was of course central to the wedding. So, he had designed and made the bridal gown which he would have liked his bride to wear, had it been his choice what she should have been dressed in – had not the wedding been arranged by Philippe.

Though he was not by any means proficient at such designs, preferring to devote his genius to such things as architecture and cunning devices, he had laboured with what love was left to him after his death, over the wedding trousseau of the bride he would now never have. White and grey silk and satin had gone into its making; lace for the many petticoats; a silk lined, boned corset for the slim waist of the woman who would never wear it; silken slippers for delicate feet; a train to trail behind the occupant of the beautiful creation as she walked up the aisle; and to crown it all a veil of finest, thinnest silk, so as to be almost see through; almost enough to see the bride's features, but not quite.

When Nadir had first seen the finished result, he had simply shaken his head, and embraced his friend without a word. That alone had told him just what he had made; and from that time on he had hidden the beautiful gown on its mannequin far out of sight, behind a curtain, so that he looked at it only when he wished.

Even now in his mind's eye he could see it; a fabulous vision of silk and satin and lace; not like any dress on Earth, but seemingly transcending it. Any mortal bride would be elated to wear such a beautiful thing, seemingly fashioned out of mist and fog more than anything else; the mannequin's milk white arms only emphasising the apparent transparency of the garment. It was almost as if the dress was unreal, and the mannequin the only thing of this world.

But beautiful though the dress was, he sometimes hated to look at it, as much as he desired to at other times. He hated to think of what lay under that strange, mysterious veil.

For the veil which hung over the mannequin's face, while giving the impression of being set upon the glossy curls of she who wore it, and hiding a face of rare, exquisite beauty, a face worthy of wearing so gorgeous a garment – instead lay upon the wax figure's bare head, and hid a face of nothing; no features, no eyes, no face at all – a blank head.

He had originally intended to give the figure which wore his labour of love a face worthy of an angel, and hair worthy of a goddess; but when he had finished sculpting the limbs and form of the mannequin, and set it on its pedestal, the blank, lifeless face had somehow so unnerved him – he who had known hardly any fear on Earth! – that he had barely dared to dress it, and place the veil on its head, without any further attention to its features – it seemed to him almost a representation of that which he would never have; a faceless, nameless bride, who did nothing but wait for her groom to come to her – forever…

So now the sometimes adored, sometimes loathed thing was hidden behind one of the many curtains in his cave, and gazed upon only when he felt the desire to do so. The thoughts of the wedding had collapsed around the successful, disastrous birthing of his 'bride' – the thought of which he now shuddered at and yet desired more than anything else.

_Only let me know love…only let me not be alone…_

The thing sometimes distracted him; at times when he composed his thoughts were disordered by _she, _waiting behind the curtain, silently calling to him to come and look at her. He rarely did; but his thoughts were often full of that bridal gown, that train, that veil, and what lay beyond it…

And the dead flowers that rested in its arms, and crowned its veil. Dead. For no living things grew in the Land of the Dead.

_Why could I not have been allowed to live? Why could I not have been allowed to find love? Why could I not have found one who would have loved me despite my face…_

At least now he had one less worry; no one cared about his face, however horrible it was. Though it was truly terrible, enough to make people shudder on Earth, here it had no consequence. There were far worse things here than hideous faces; than torn muscle, than twisted bone, than rotted, corrupted flesh.

There were far worse things that he had seen…and would continue to see…forever.

_Forever is an awfully long time when you are alone._

His fingers traced over the keys, playing out a mournful tune; a wedding dirge, but manipulated into a requiem. And all the while, unconscious thoughts played out in his head; his last connections to that which he had known when he had been alive…

_Eating croissants in a breakfast room…_

_Watching four figures walk across the grounds…_

_Going to the library…_

_The library…_

All this he would never know again. Though the Land of the Dead had its compensations, it could not make up what he had lost…and would never have…

_But that does not mean I will not forget. I never forgive. And I never forget._

His fingers slammed down upon the keys in a savage, harsh chord.

_A Phantom does not know the meaning of those words._

_A Phantom…_

It was cold. There was snow. It was winter up above. The snow lay thick upon his grave.

_A Phantom…_

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I have decided to make Erik look handsome in this - or at least, fairly handsome, apart from the right side of his face. Well, it's bad enough that the guy's dead without being completely ugly as well! Don't worry, he will have some defeciencies. What do I mean? Ah, you'll have to wait and see! But seriously, didn't you wonder why he always wears gloves?**

Well, didn't you?

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PLEASE! _REVIEW! PLEASE!_


	7. Whiskey and Ghost stories

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO or Corpse Bride. Sad, but true. **

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Once again from Meg's – and Carlotta's - point of view. Christine and Raoul – and subsequently Erik – are going to have lots of chapters to themselves later on, so I thought I'd better develop the two girls' characters early on so I don't leave them in the lurch later.**

**Also, Buquet is in this as well! Be warned, though, this is not the Buquet from the 2004 film, even though he was portrayed very well by Kevin R. McNally. Since he was such a 'dastard' (note the'd', _not_ the 'b') and a sexual harasser, I didn't feel that sorry about Erik killing him. But for this story I prefer to utilise the Buquet from the stage show, and partially Leroux's book (though he didn't have much of a part in that, having rather unluckily died in the very first chapter) as a wise, thoughtful, fairly old man, if a little keen on his spirits. Besides, if he was lecherous, he'd probably have been fired from the job he has on the de Chagny estate, since it's a fairly important one; and we've already got our lecher in the Comte du Barry, Celandine's husband Louis. No more lechers, all right?**

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Whiskey and Ghost Stories

Meg sat back in her chair; her shoulders slumped in a slouch, her arms crossed. If her mother had seen her she would surely have rapped her across the knuckles for such slovenliness; but since Mamma was not here, she was free to slouch as she wished.

And why should she not? She didn't want to be here in the first place. Visiting the head groundskeeper was not her idea of fun. Not that she was snobbish at all…at least, she hoped not. It was just that she wanted to do more than sit in a chilly hut – never mind the fact that there was a roaring fire in the fireplace – and listen to some man she did not know prattle on to Christine about what had been happening in the grounds in the years since she had departed.

She looked over at Carlotta, who, she noticed with a secret smile, was seated as close to the fire as she could. The Spanish girl was sitting bolt upright, in a way that she herself somehow never managed to achieve, her hands folded demurely in her lap; but her eyes were anything but demure, as they gazed unmoving at Christine, Raoul and Monsieur Buquet on the other side of the fireplace, chatting away animatedly; making rapid sense of the French she heard.

It was odd; when she had first met the girl, Carlotta had struck her as almost obnoxiously proud, for some reason she could not now fathom, for all that she smiled at them – to her, she seemed to be grinning smugly, in light of an untold purpose. But after only a few minutes conversation with her, a very different person had come to light. Carlotta _was _certainly proud, but not in the way that a Narcissist, self-absorbed person was; instead she had more than an air of royalty about her. She walked as Meg had fancied queens might always walk; holding their heads high, quietly knowing that they were far above slouching as other humans did; regarding all around them with an air of – not superiority or disdain, but certainly determination and strength of will. Sitting now close by the blazing fire, the flames dancing over her honey coloured skin and shining in her dark eyes, Meg might fancy, with her own wild imagination, that they were not in a fairly small wooden hut, still shivering despite the furs they kept wrapped around themselves, but in a great banqueting hall, with Carlotta sitting upon her throne, regal and divine, placed above all indeed. Christine might be a beautiful princess, and Raoul the handsome prince Charming; but it was unthinkable, to her at least, that Carlotta would be anything but a very queen.

_So what does that make me?_

_Or, for that matter, Monsieur Buquet?_

She looked over at the man, as she thought of him. He was certainly unlike any man she had ever met, even in the lower parts of Paris, when they had gone walking and encountered roughs on the streets. She had never seen a man look so – well, almost _wild. _His hair, though barely longer than Raoul's, just down to his shoulders, was, unlike the Vicomte's, fairly matted and tangled – _has the man never heard of combs? _– and his face, framed by a short beard, far less matted but still grizzled with grey, was far more swarthy than any she had ever seen, even in Paris. Yet his eyes twinkled in his face like two pieces of black jade, with a mischievous joviality that almost made her want to smile herself; and his hands, though seemingly large and clumsy, and with many scars and a scalding mark across the back of the right one, handled whatever he touched or held with infinite care– the logs of wood he had thrown into the fire when they had first arrived, the poker he had used to stoke up the flames, the chairs he had pulled up to the fireplace for the girls to sit down on, the bottle and glasses he now handled-

"Mameselle Giry?"

"Hmm?" She shook herself out of her reverie, to realize that the three were now looking at her – and Buquet was holding a glass out.

"I was asking if you would care for a nip of this, Mameselle – I noticed you were shivering, even with the fire; and this does wonders for keeping out the cold." He held the glass out further, taking care to keep it away from the fire.

She gave the liquid in the small glass a scrutinizing look. It was clear and colourless, just like water; but she knew by instinct that any clear liquid that came out of an earthenware bottle was not by any means water. She cast a glance over at Christine and Raoul, who were both silently mouthing 'no' over and over again, and Carlotta, who was watching in amused silence.

_What do I say? _She decided to go for a counter-attack.

"_Merci _for your kind offerMonsieur Buquet; but my Mamma always told me never to drink from a proffered glass of colourless liquid unless the person offering it to me took a swig first." And Mamma should know, having lived in the opera house from when she was ten until she had married Meg's father and become a lady.

There was silence in the hut for a moment, save for the crackling of the flames; than Buquet suddenly gave a great shout of laughter, almost like a bear roaring, making her jump. More gently, he said, "Your Mamma is certainly very wise, Mameselle – and you are very wise to take her advice." Leaning back in his seat, he downed the contents of the glass in one swallow.

"You surely wouldn't have actually given it to her, Buquet?" Raoul insisted, still looking disapproving.

"Of course not, Vicomte," said Buquet, as he rammed the stopper back into the mouth of the bottle, looking scandalized at the very idea. "Do you think I would have done such a thing? To give this to an unprepared lady? Never."

"Never mind about me being a lady," Meg put in, forgetting her manners for the moment. "What _is _that stuff, anyway?"

"A special type of whiskey," Christine replied, calmly. "Strong enough to make your eyes water enough to weep just by sniffing it, and potent enough to make an unprepared tongue virtually shrivel up."

"And you would know this, how?" Carlotta inquired, curiously.

Christine smiled, to Meg's eyes almost wickedly. "Let us say that when we were younger, Raoul and I introduced ourselves to the world of alcohol, since Monsieur Buquet was not prepared to let us have a taste of it as of yet."

"So…you got drunk?" she asked, hardly believing what she was hearing. Christine, the pure, the innocent, the quiet, the meek…doing something so wild as getting drunk? On _whiskey?_

"_Tried _is the word, rather than got," Raoul corrected, with a vivacity she had rarely seen in him before now, as well as just a little obvious resentment from years gone by. "That stuff doesn't give you time to get drunk. Or rather, it didn't give _me_ time to get drunk. As I recall, Christine, you made _me _drink first, before you so much as sampled it."

Christine lowered her eyes in mock embarrassment and penitence; yet she peeped up roguishly through her long lashes, in a way that made Meg marvel. This engagement and subsequent marriage really was changing her! "Well, drinking _is_ a gentleman's sport – I rather thought you would be flattered."

"I was at first – then I was just sick."

"I know," she rejoined, smiling widely now. "I remember Philippe thought you had been eating too many treats – and they forced you to take that medicine!" She collapsed in a fit of giggles.

"_You_ can laugh," Raoul said haughtily. "You just got headaches. I don't know what made me sicker – the liquor or the medicine."

"The liquor," Christine and Buquet both chorused.

Meg was completely at a loss. Sickness and headaches brought on by hangovers? _These _two? The sweet little courtly lovers that had so charmed her earlier? Truly, was the world going mad? Carlotta too looked puzzled, as if she could hardly believe what she was hearing; her nose wrinkled in confusion.

Raoul must have realized what was going through the heads of the two, since he swiftly turned to them and said, "But don't you two go thinking that we spent the whole of our childhoods coming to Buquet to get intoxicated!"

"What did you come for then?" Carlotta asked, rather bluntly, but at the same time plainly stating Meg's own private thoughts.

Christine's eyes now shone, and not just from the fire. "For the stories, of course."

"Stories?"

"Stories," Christine confirmed. "We used to visit him, and go down the village, and ask the people there to tell us stories, as well as all the workers in the grounds. As a sort of hobby, you know."

"I will always remember those times, for one," Buquet chuckled. Sitting up straighter in his own chair, he managed to put on a slightly higher pitched voice that his usual tone, and opened his eyes wide, obviously mimicking some sort of child, probably Christine or Raoul. "Kind gentleman, have you a little story to tell us, please?"

"And you did?" Carlotta inquired, more curiously now.

Raoul nodded in affirmation. "He did. Buquet here may be a bit gruff; but he has the most fantastic talent for telling stories I have ever come across. I always said you should have been in the theatre," he went on, talking now to the head groundskeeper.

"Yes; but if I had what would have happened to the grounds? And besides, what theatre would take _me _in?" Buquet shot back.

Meg, meanwhile, was thinking. Perhaps this was her chance to find out more…

"So, you know lots of stories?" she asked out loud.

He nodded in the affirmative, smiling proudly.

"Then would you be able to tell us about the ghost in the woods?"

* * *

The smiles disappeared off the faces of those around her as the sun suddenly ducked behind a cloud in the sky, so abrupt was the transformation.

Carlotta sat, bemused, looking around her. What was going on? All this for the sake of that word – what was it? 'Ghost'? She didn't know the word. She'd never had cause to learn it.

"Ghost?" she asked, her voice breaking the tense silence.

Raoul looked over at her, blinking. "Oh. Um. I think it would be 'fantasma' in Spanish." Unlike Louis, Raoul _had_ bothered to learn Spanish in his youth, and learnt more of it when she had come to stay, so that he would be able to have basic conversations with her in her own language.

She felt her own mouth unconsciously open, and her eyes widen. _"Una fantasma? En el bosque?" _she asked, slipping back into Spanish, as she tended to do when she was nervous.

Buquet nodded slowly, catching the meaning of her inquiry though he didn't understand the language she spoke. "Yes. There is supposed to be a ghost there – but it's just a story, I assure you, Mameselle."

"Well, if it is a story," Meg pressed, "then you will be the one to tell it the best, Monsieur Buquet." The girl's eyes were sparkling with the flames, and for the first time since she had entered the hut she looked really interested.

Meg Giry was a bit of a puzzle to Carlotta. She was ever changing; sometimes she was lively and sprightly, at other times quiet and thoughtful; and she switched very quickly between the two moods – or at least, the moods that she had so far seen. Carlotta wasn't used to this; the people that were normally around her usually stayed in one mood for a long time, or did not even show their mood at all. But the short girl carried certain vivacity in her, no matter what mood she was in; and Carlotta got the impression that she was always ready to smile or joke, save for when she was sad or low. In fact, she reminded her more than a little of Rocío; but her _hermana menor _made jokes much more at other people's expense, especially her, and she doubted that Meg would do such nasty things.

Yes, on the whole she was very glad that the two had come to the de Chagny mansion. Even if Christine, who seemed nice, if a little quiet, was engaged with the Vicomte most of the time, she could always spend time with Meg. The little Giry was certainly lively and friendly enough to help the days and weeks until the wedding pass by swiftly.

_And now she talks about ghosts…_

She shivered. She had never liked ghost stories; in the hot nights back in Spain, when the girls had not been able to sleep, Rocío had often sat up in her bed – _just my luck to share a room with her! – _and told stories of ghosts and goblins that she had heard off the gardeners, the maids, cousins who had come to visit, friends, cousin Paolo, on whom she had a huge crush; sprites and spectres, and vivid imagery so horrible that she had put her head under the covers, despite the heat, in an attempt to shut out the words that continued to drip like ice cold water into her ears, and freeze her heart with dread. And when Rocío had finally grown tired of her own voice, and blew out the candle and went to sleep herself, she stayed awake, looking up into the darkness, unable to rest from what she remembered.

_What would they say if they learned I had been terrified by my hermana menor with ghost stories?_

But already Buquet was saying, "There's no point in that story, Mameselle. I'd rather not tell it."

"No; tell it, Monsieur Buquet," came Christine's voice suddenly. The girl cast a glance at Meg's eager face, and then looked back at Buquet. "If I know Meg, she'll just go asking about until she gets the answer she wants. She's very stubborn in that respect." She shot a small smile at her best friend. "Better she hears it from you than anyone else."

The man hesitated, then sighed. "Very well. I'll tell you. But don't you four go telling anyone else about this, all right?"

They all nodded; even she. What else could she do? All she could do was sit straight-backed, as her Madré had taught her, and look mildly interested in what the head groundskeeper had to say.

_At least he can't be as vivid and gruesome as Rocío. _

Buquet threw another log into the fire, and gazed into the flames for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he uncorked the bottle again, poured out another glass of the whiskey, and tossed it off, before he began to speak.

"Nobody knows exactly when it happened," he said quietly. "Maybe twenty, fifty, a hundred years ago. Everyone's just been aware of it for a great while. Nobody knows how the story spread, or if it is a fable, then who started it. It's just always been here, with us."

He broke off, and looked around at them. Christine and Raoul, with the air of those who had heard the story many times before, but still despite themselves were eager to hear it again, sat close together, watching him intently. Meg sat forward in her seat, her hands now rested on her lap instead of crossed across her chest, her head slightly on one side, intent on him. He sighed softly, shook his head, and went on.

"Now supposedly, there was once a man who lived around here – like I said, I don't know how long ago, or where exactly, or anything. Anyway, he lived around here…though I am surprised he had lived for so long."

"Why?" Meg asked. "Was he very evil?"

"Well," Buquet thought for a moment, "hmmm, well, no, not as such – not then, at any rate. But it was his face, you see."

"What about it?"

"Why, it was a face such that any God-fearing mother would have drowned him at birth." Buquet held his right hand up to his own face, covering his right eye and a god part of the right side of his face with his great hand. "It was so horrible that he wore a mask over it all the time – though only half a mask, like this. Half of his face was very beautiful, indeed – seemingly more like an angel's than anything else. Handsomer even than you, Vicomte!"

Raoul laughed jokingly, despite the situation. "Oh, I find that hard to believe!"

But Carlotta was by now focused on the story; a strange, morbid fascination filled her both at the thought of the chillingly beautiful face, and at the thought of the mask, and what lay beneath it. "But what was the other half of his face like?"

Buquet's smile at his jest with the Vicomte faded, as he lowered his hand. "Well, it wasn't for nothing that they called him 'the living corpse', you know."

"What?" Meg squeaked. "You mean…"

"Yes, I do," the man replied soberly. He ran his finger down his nose, as if it were a knife; carving out a large chunk of the bridge, severing the right nostril completely. "Half his nose had never grown, like a skull's; and the skin was cracked and dry like aged parchment – although there was enough of it, apparently, to be left rotting on the bones of his skull. It was as if someone had torn the skin and part of his nose right off his face!"

Meg grimaced; and he chuckled to see it. "Well, you asked, Mameselle. Anyway, even though he looked like a demon or a corpse in some respects, in others he was as gifted as if he had been one of God's own angels. He had the most beautiful voice ever heard, just like an angel singing, if one could hear them sing; and he wrote music brilliant enough to make one's soul soar out of their body. And they say that he held many people in thrall, as he sang and played; and cast spells over them, so that they obeyed his every word, and followed him as if they were sheep."

"And this was so wrong?" Carlotta heard herself ask.

Buquet shrugged. "Apparently so, since people began to whisper against him, wherever he went. They said things like he'd given up the half of his face while still in his mother's womb for powers from the Devil himself; that his voice was a thing of witchcraft and that he himself was a witch; that he was evil and would desire to steal away children and young women for unholy sacrifices; all that sort of stuff. But they could never prove anything against him. At least," he corrected himself, "until people started dying in his wake."

"How?" Meg asked. She was, Carlotta thought, taking a rather ghoulish delight in the story.

"Always one of two ends; their necks would either be broken, or they would have been strangled. At first people thought that the person who did the deeds killed them with their hands; but all the throttling victims had rope burns on their necks, so they came to realized that the murder used a rope to throttle them – and possibly to break the necks of the other victims as well." He grabbed his shirt collar, and jerked it up so that his head was on one side, letting his tongue hang out, imitating a hanging victim. The thought was so awful that she had to turn her head away.

"Why on earth would he do that, if it _was_ him?" Meg asked, slightly hushed, even she awed by this revelation; her eyes wide.

The man shrugged again, as he released his collar. "Who knows? Maybe he was angry with them condemning him for his face. Or maybe he dedicated their souls to evil, or some such rot. Or maybe he just liked killing for its own sake. That can happen, you know; a man can kill another by accident, or in battle, and then grow to love taking life, and can't stop himself from doing it; until he becomes almost a monster. And many say that this man was already a monster. He probably felt he had no obligation towards the world, because of his face and how people had rejected him because of it."

"What happened then?" she heard her own voice blurt out, beyond her control.

"Apparently for a long time nobody could catch him at it, though many suspected him," Buquet went on, pouring out another glass of the liquor. "Then one day someone saw him leaving the house of a certain person, and later on they found that person dead inside the house, throttled with evident rope burns on their neck. Of course they reckoned it must be him, and now they had proof; so quite a few men went after him, meaning to kill him. They would have done too – in fact one of them managed to get a knife into him – but he knocked them all down, and ran away into the woods. He ran a good three miles, with the men chasing after him all the while; hunted through the trees like a fox with the hounds on the scent. They were determined to have his blood, you see; and when they caught him they meant to tear him limb from limb."

There was a pause as he drank off the newest glass, giving Carlotta time to reflect on this. She shuddered to think of it; hated to think of the man desperately trying to flee through the woods, knowing that if his pursuers caught up with him he was dead; hated to think of the fear and agonies he must have suffered – no matter what he had done, no human should have to go through that. Meg, from what she could see of her, had a white face and wide eyes; Christine and Raoul were both solemn looking, and thoughtful; though they had obviously heard the tale many times before, that evidently didn't make it any less thought-provoking.

"They would have done, too," the man continued, setting down the glass, "if they'd caught him in time. But they found him collapsed, the life gone from him, on a bank under a tree in the middle of the wood, his eyes open, his mask slipped half off his face, and his eyes, yellow as a cat's, staring sightlessly up at the sky!"

"Why did he die?" Meg asked, after a hushed silence after this last statement.

"Well, at the time the men were so spooked as well as furious that they would have sworn that the Devil had come and stuck him down and carried him off to Hell," he replied conversationally. "But I reckon it had more to do with that side wound. He ran three miles, so he must have lost a lot of blood – too much to be remedied. So anyway, they buried him then and there, in the ground that had grown soft and wet with his own blood, with no priest or pastor to say a prayer over him, and no marking of his grave."

"Oh," Carlotta heard herself whisper. "Oh." Unconsciously she clasped her rosary, seeking it as some sort of comfort, against Buquet's words. "Oh, the poor man!"

Buquet chuckled, but not unkindly, at her apparent distress. "You don't need to worry your head about it, Mameselle Gudicelli. It's just a story; it's not real."

"But tell us about the ghost!" Meg persisted.

He chuckled again. "No dissuading you, is there, Mameselle? Of course there's no truth in the story; but people still say that if you care to go into the woods – which they don't, of course; go into the woods I mean – sometimes you might see a black shape, wrapped in a dark cloak; and seemingly wearing a white mask, and the other side of the face shadowed as the dark side of the moon. And if you see that, you should run for your life; for it is the ghost of the 'living corpse', who has fought his way out of his grave, and walks the earth once more; and that the handsome side of his face is now the white side, since it is his skull, the flesh having rotted away long ago; and that which was once white with the mask is now dark with evil. And if he catches you in his gaze, there is no escaping him; you are spellbound and follow him at his will; and then…" the man chuckled, and put his hands at his neck, "he will catch you, with his magical lasso!"

"And what then?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Buquet turned to her, his face now perfectly serious, without any form of jest. "Then, Mameselle, you die. And he laughs over your body."

There was silence, except for the crackling of the flames. At length, Raoul got up, and stretched. "We had better be getting back to the house. I'm sure they'll be wondering where we are."

Buquet got up as well. "Aye, you'd better go. What would your elders say if they found you'd been sitting and chatting with the head groundskeeper?"

"They won't know," Meg said confidentially, as she stood up as well. "Because we won't tell."

The four shuffled out of the hut, blinking in the bright light after the shadows the fire had created. They all thanked Buquet politely for his reception of them, and he bowed jokingly and invited them to come back any time they pleased.

Carlotta was eager to get back to the house – she was cold, and not just from the temperature. But as Christine and Raoul started off together, she could not help waiting for Meg, secretly fingering her rosary beads. And, quite by accident, she assured herself, she heard Meg hurriedly ask, "Do you really think there's any truth behind the story, Monsieur?"

Buquet darted a glance at her, but she quickly turned her head to look away; and he must have thought she could not hear for he said, very quietly, "I am not sure, Mameselle, but this I know; I have been heads groundskeeper of this estate for five and twenty years, and I've never seen so much as a pigeon or fox in those woods, search though I might. I keep my own council, but…"

She could not bear to hear any more. She set off at a brisk walk, and after a few moments heard Meg's hurried, crunching footsteps coming swiftly after her, and the footsteps' owner caught up with her just as swiftly.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting," Meg said brightly, pulling her hood over her golden hair."

"It is quite all right."

"I could see you looked a bit nervous in there – you don't like ghost stories much, do you?"

She turned to look down at Meg's face, but the little Giry had a sincere expression. And because of that, she found herself saying, in a way Madré would deplore, "My sister always told them to me when we shared a room. It would scare the spit out of me."

Meg nudged her arm in sympathy. "That's certainly not a very nice way for an elder sister to behave towards her younger one."

Carlotta felt her cheeks burning in mortification as she was unable to prevent herself from blurting out, "Rocío is nearly two years younger than me."

There was silence from Meg from a moment. Then, she chuckled. "And to think, all I had to put up with was Christine talking in her sleep." Boldly, she suddenly linked her arm through Carlotta's, and beamed up into her face.

A few months ago Carlotta would have probably slipped her arm out from Meg's; but time in France had taught her the value of companionship. And to her surprise, it was rather nice to walk arm in arm with another girl. She'd never done that much in Spain. Padré wouldn't have heard of it.

Now, if only Meg wasn't so short – she had to moderate her long strides so that the rather smaller girl could keep up with her, and as a result was disrupting the grace that Madré had built into her over the years. But she decided that for once, she didn't care.

_These are going to be a very interesting next few weeks._

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Really sorry about the general boringness of this chapter; but this was necessary to introduce us to Buquet, who will play a moderate part in the action – I haven't yet decided whether he dies or not – and the interaction and opinions between the four young ones. More exciting stuff will come; but for now it's the necessaries, I'm afraid. If you don't like it, lump it. But review out of courtesy, please. Thank you! And have a nice day!****

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Carlotta is a Catholic, in case you haven't noticed, what with the rosary and all. I am Roman Catholic myself, although not very devout; but I have a deep understanding of my religion, even if I don't practice it very strongly. Since she's been brought up in Spain, she is very much more religious than I – and this will come in handy later on, I'm sure. Since she's so religious, she would certainly be taken aback at a person not being buried properly, no matter what they had done.**_**

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En el bosque? – In the wood?**_**

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Lydiby: I understand your opinion. I mean, lots of the writers are saying 'Oh, I'd love Erik despite his deformities and faults'. I can see their point with Gerard Butler's Phantom, since he doesn't really have much of a deformity in the first place; but Michael Crawford's original Phantom _was_ pretty gruesome, though I suppose it was all right if he covered it up. Like I've said before, I haven't read Kay's version, so I don't know about that; but as for Leroux's Phantom – the starting point of it all – I have to scream, _Who do you think you are kidding? _No offence to the guy, since it is not his fault, but I mean, come on – not only does he not have a nose, and his skin is yellow, as are his eyes; but, we are told, he smells of death. I take this to mean that he smells of something rotting. Am I therefore supposed to be impressed by the fact that these writers are turned on by the scent of rotting meat? Also, although I know that people can love other people despite hideous deformities, I find it hard to believe that writers can simply pen all their desires and hopes on a man who can sing extremely well and hides behind a mask. Some Eriks look like corpses; others look as if they've had pieces of their faces torn off – while Gerard Butler looks as if he has a bad case of sunburn; but we'll ignore that? Can you assume that, when faced with this sort of thing, you would not squirm? Though I am an EC shipper, I can understand her horror and dread of the Phantom, considering what she has been faced with. When coming face to face with a man with a face with a corpse for the first time, would you scream or leap on him and kiss him passionately? I mean no offence to anyone who does not take kindly to this statement – this is just my opinion, and I agree with you, Lydiby. Also, sorry about being sarcastic about the smile thing. I thought you were being jokey sarcastic, and decided to be jokey sarcastic in my turn. Guess I was wrong. Forgiveness, please?**

**Mominator124: Hello there. Or your evil twin Skippy. Anyway; he is a bit of a misfit, isn't he? Our poor little Phantom just can't get a break. But then again, everyone does seem to love him because he's anything but ordinary. Umm…I was thinking more along the lines of what he will look like when he first appears to Christine – but I don't want to spoil it! Wait and see!**

**SimplyElymas (or just Elymas? Help, please): I wanted Nadir to be all reasonable, since he was older than Erik when he died, and has been there longer – and is pretty practical in the first place, even without being dead. I want Erik to be a bit of a poet as well; but unfortunately that would mean I would have to write poetry for him to say – and I'm not very good at poetry, I must admit. Oh, well, we shall see. Say, I hope people don't start to like Carlotta more than Christine! I'm gratified, but this is a love triangle between Christine, Raoul and the Phantom, not Carlotta! Christine's the heroine! But then again, I've made my Carlotta real seeming, so I guess that's good.**

**MetalMyersJason: Don't worry, I will. How he's going to get it will be interesting, but…nope, can't say anymore! So here's your Erik; dead I'm afraid, but everyone dies sooner or later. Let us say that his hands are more than just cold and skeletal – at least in the Land of the Living…**

**Kat097: No problem! I'm glad you like it. I love writing this sort of thing – it makes me feel so fulfilled. This film does look very good; the trailer is excellently spooky. I would put up the address, but the stupid post won't let me do it. Just look for the official Corpse Bride website. Unfortunately, the film itself won't be out 'til September, for us poor people stuck in England! But not so poor, since we got all that special stuff on the Phantom DVD without any hassle!**

**Willow Rose 3: Well, anonymous reviews are now accepted, thanks to your wise advice – and it's just as well, otherwise SimplyElymas wouldn't have been able to review. So thanx! Ah, I'm forgiven! And I was superb! Ah, my life is good. **

**Moonjava: You like it a lot, hmm? Good.**

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READ! REVIEW! OBLIGE THE SEAMSTRESS!**


	8. Proposals

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera, or Corpse Bride. The latter is a bit freaky, so maybe I shouldn't own it until I get used to it. Meh.**

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Moonjava: Ah yes, I see what you mean. Don't worry, you don't have to do too detailed reviews – it just gets a bit disconcerting when you say the same thing over and over again. Variation is a wonderful thing! Thanx for the great chapter thing!**

**MetalMyersJason: I love ghost stories as well! My favourites are M.R. James – _so _good! I do know what you mean – I believe everyone should be free to practise what they believe. Even Wicca, if that makes them happy. Except the KKK. They are bad. Very bad. I've never seen Hellboy. Is it good? I heard it was good. I wanted to go see it, but no one would take me, and I didn't have any money myself. Cruel, heartless family! And yes, I know I can rent it on DVD or something – but my mum might start giving me weird looks if I asked to rent it. Then again, she let me rent 'Dracula 2000'…yeah, maybe she would let me after all.**

**SimplyElymas: Good! I'm glad she has spunk! Like I've said before, I'm not really a fan of Christine being a ditzy airhead – otherwise why would the Phantom be attracted to her? For her ditzyness? Carlie and Chris – what a double act! Yes, Raoul and Christine got into some real trouble when they were younger, I assure you! My Buquet is nice! Ah, I have achieved niceness for Buquet! He owes me one! I thought it would be funny to have him impersonate Raoul – I got that line from the Leroux book, when Raoul was thinking about their childhood. I also got the line about the fairies form Chapter Three from there as well! I'm really mixing in the book with the film and musical here. Tales of Erik are good – though I don't think this is quite so cuddly, since they were talking about him being an avenging ghost who's fought his way out of his grave and had his face rotted off. If you think that's cuddly…well, it's up to you, luv. Thanx for the review!**

**Lydiby: Ah, thanks for forgiving that which I did not commit! There's a flaw in that logic somewhere…but thanks anyway! I don't think you're making yourself unpopular – from the reviews I've read on your story, people seem to like your writing. I'd 'love' to find out how I'd react to his face as well – probably scream and faint. I mean, should I jump for joy at the sight of a moving, talking corpse – assuming I don't know what an interesting personality he has? Or worry that he's going to eat my skin? You're _not_ unpopular – I like you, so stop worrying! And if they don't like _me_ – well, we'll deal with that when the time comes.**

**Mominator124: Ah, glad it's not boring! Then again, the boring chapters often explain more. I wasn't thinking of Harry Potter myself – but now that you mention it, it is sort of like that. I love ghost stories too – try M.R. James's. The best one is 'Casting the Runes', but 'Oh whistle and I'll come to you may lad' and 'The Ash Tree' are good as well. Oh, dear. You don't like hinting at future events? Then, to keep you, my nice reviewer happy, I hereby swear I shall do my very best to foreshadow, but not to spoil the story. I won't say I won't because I might slip up and then you might chase me and beat me over the head with a kipper, or something. I don't want my hair to smell of kippers! Even though they're kind of tasty. Anyway, I promise I will do my best not to do it. You will soon discover what happens next…(Subtle enough for you?)**

**Phantomette: Welcome aboard! When my sister Lucie and I saw Corpse Bride in the cinema for the first time – and let me tell you, seeing it on the big screen is a lot more freaky than watching it on your computer – we were a bit freaked out as well. I mean, for one thing a lot of the trailer takes place in the dark – not the dark of the cinema, but the events in it take place at night. And rather creepy stuff when – no! If you're reading this and you haven't seen the trailer, I'm not going to spoil it for you! I'm glad I don't have any plot holes – plot holes are bad. Has anyone seen in some editions of Philip Pullman's Northern Lights, for example, at one point the head gypsy woman has an eagle or some sort of bird for a daemon, and then later on she has a wolf? That's what I mean. It just ruins stuff for you. As for the non grammar errors and spelling mistakes, I must confess that I cheat – I write this on my computer, and it warns me if I've made a spelling mistake or a grammar error. So I don't really have to do any work. I hang my head in shame. But I have a rare gem! Thank you, my faithful reviewer, thank you!**

**Kat097: Yeah, can't wait for that to come out! Christopher Eccleston _was _good; but I kept remembering him in Elizabeth, and shuddering…never mind, Christmas is only about six months away…oh, I shouldn't have said that, should I? Never mind, September is only about two months away – only _now _I think it's out in October! Curse these American films! How come they always come out over there before over here? Not fair! Not fair! I don't practice my religion much – for one I don't have much time, what with going to school from eight of the clock until six, _and _going on Saturdays as well – Sunday really is a day of rest for my house. Then again, chapel _is _compulsory on Saturday mornings for most of the school; but unfortunately, since I go to a Protestant school, it sort of defeats the object. Darn. Here's the next chapter! Enjoy!**

**Willow Rose: Anything for the one who ensured I would get more reviews! Life is very good, especially since my GCSEs are over, and holidays are coming. I do take it for granted sometimes – other times I praise it. Nope, it's definitely 'oblige the seamstress' at the bottom. Let me explain; when Random Battle-cry started writing 'The Further Adventures of…' (a truly excellent phic, by the way; a worthy sequel to 'Whose lair is it anyway?') I was overtaken by excitement, and asked her, in one of my reviews, if I could be a minion. As my selling appeal, I told her, among other things, that I was very good at sewing – which I am…modest little flower, ain't I? – and that I could stitch people up when they got hurt or something, or stitch clothes when they got ripped in all the sucker punching and stuff. She took me at my word; and if you go to her profile and scroll down to her list of minions, you will see me there, besides being in the list of people who are currently featured in her writing, as 'seamstress'. Filled with gratefulness, I now view myself as an official seamstress – a _real _one, not a Terry Pratchett one – and consequently urge people to review and oblige me, as 'she who sews up all the problems in the world – including some people's mouths.' Not that I've ever done that…though I may, in time…Blessed be, indeed! I bless you, as a seamstress, my faithful reviewer! Oh dear, all this 'divine seamstress' business is going to my head! I must go off and read the work from some of my idols, and be consequently humbled!**

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So, now once again from the viewpoint of little Miss. Daaé – a whole chapter of it, if relatively short! Our favourite ingénue has, I feel, been a little neglected, so it's time to put that to rights. Now we shall see what dear Christine thinks about it all since yesterday's reflections.**

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'**The most happy.'**

**Anne Boleyn**

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Proposals

Christine sat on her bed, her amethyst coloured silk skirts piled up around her; the real amethysts still at her ears and throat. But she cared nothing for the splendid clothes and jewels she wore – she looked only at the ring upon the finger of her left hand, sparkling in the candle light, gleaming against her pale skin.

A beautiful thing; a simple circle of gold, but studded on one side with diamonds, around an central, larger diamond, with the faintest hint of blue – not showy, but somehow seemingly perfect. "The most beautiful ring for the most beautiful bride," Raoul had said solemnly, as he has placed it upon her finger, in front of everyone in the Louis Philippe room, and kissed her just as solemnly; a chaste brush of his lips on her cheek.

_He was not nearly so solemn but a little later, _her mind whispered, as she saw herself reflected a hundred, a thousand times over, in the many, many facets of the ring.

No, he had certainly not been so solemn – he had been anything but solemn, when he had caught her only a few minutes ago, when she had been making her way up to her room, alone, up one of the great marble staircases; when he had pulled the ring off her finger, and dropped to one knee on the marble step beside her, and clasped her hands in his, and proposed again – only this time, he had _asked_ her.

"_Christine, will you marry me? Not because we have been betrothed since we were children; not because of the alliance between our families; not because of any of that – for me. Will you marry me for myself?"_

And when she had said yes, he had whooped like the little boy he had once been, and jumping up swept her up in his arms and whirled her around, so that she squealed almost like a little girl herself, half in joy, half in fright, both rejoicing in his delight and her own, half fearing that they would both fall over, or that he would loose hold of her and drop her.

_Silly girl…he's never dropped you. Even when we were little, he never did…_

And when he had finally set her down again, as he had slipped the ring onto her finger once more, his lips had caught her own…she, who had never expected to be kissed in such a way, until the day of her wedding, and then only after her husband had lifted her veil and looked upon her as his bride for the first time. And she had looked into his eyes, and she knew she had seen love.

And she knew she loved him. She _knew_ she loved him, ever since she had first seen him entering the drawing room the previous day; even though she denied Meg's protests of love at first sight she knew it was true – knew this was meant to be the same way she knew that when she began a certain song, she would sing it beautifully, surpassing anything else that evening.

_This was meant to be._

For the last few years, her impending marriage had been a source of dread, but also resignation on her part. She had been 'getting married' for so long now that it had lost all savour and meaning to her.

_It is nothing special. Even with all the gifts and trinkets and trimmings, it is nothing special._

But to be married – to be married to such a husband as Raoul – that was another thing entirely; and she felt no adversity to it at all. How could she? Her walking, hertalkign with him, even with the addition of the others, had bridged the gap that six years had created. Many years had gone by, but Raoul was still the same; still sweet, still slightly nervous, still a little under-confident; still the same, cherished playmate, only now changed as well; into a mature, slightly more confident young man, that any young woman would be glad to wed.

_And I want to marry him. For himself…_

So why did she feel the way she did? As she looked at the ring, she now felt no euphoria, no joy, nothing but an odd feeling, deep in her gut – an old feeling, which had come to her in her younger days, and had come to her again, now, of all times, when she should be feeling so happy.

What was it? _Reluctance?_ No. _Resentment._ No, not that either. What then? And why did she feel it? She should be feeling happy – she _knew_ she should be feeling happy. What then was wrong with her?

There was a sudden tap on the door, and a whisper, that could only belong to one person out of so many in the household. "Christine?"

Quickly straightening, she rearranged her skirts, saying as she did so "Come in, Meg."

The door creaked open, and the younger Giry appeared, arranged as she was in all her finery – far more richly attired than anything she had worn in Paris; and if Genevieve or Celandine had noticed that she had filched much of her jewellery from the trinkets that had been sent to Christine, they hadn't mentioned it. But the dress was her own, bought in Paris by Madame Giry and fashioned from the finest egg-blue silk, made specially for her; and accentuated by letting her golden hair fall down her back, and with diamonds and sapphires adorning her ears and throat; in short resembling a sort of angel. And right now her blue eyes gleamed with delight, as they espied Christine.

"_There_ you are!" she whispered, sliding into the room and shutting the door behind her. Not until the last action was completed did she dare to raise her voice; a reflex born of years of sitting up during the night and risking Madame Giry discovering them while they chattered away together; and with a rustle of silk she quickly made her way over to the bed, to sink down beside her best friend and seize her hands.

"Oh, Christine; that was _so _romantic!" she blurted out.

She sighed, a small smile tracing her lips. Once again, Meg had lost her. No change there, then. They could be in Paris or in Portugal; but Meg would always be Meg. "And what would that be then, Meg?"

Meg looked at her as if she was not a little affected in her wits. _And perhaps I am. _"Raoul proposing, of course! It was _so_ sweet!"

She allowed herself a chuckle. "Oh, yes; very sweet. A brief exchange of vows, and a kiss on the cheek. Very romantic indeed."

Meg waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, I don't mean the one in the Louis Philippe room! I meant the one _afterwards…_" She lapsed into a giggle.

_What? But how?_

As calmly as she could, she managed to ask, "What do you mean?"

"Don't get mysterious with _me, _Christine Daaé. I saw you on the stairs. I saw him go down on one knee. I heard him ask you again – and the way he asked it. I heard you say yes. I saw him whirl you around; and you two kiss. And what's more," the little Giry went on, nestling still closer to Christine, and putting an arm around her waist so that she could not edge away, "I saw that you liked it. Quite a lot, actually. Am I right?"

She bowed her head, to hide the flush she knew was breaking out over her cheeks. "Yes," she admitted. "Yes, I did."

"Well, why were you looking like you'd bitten your lip or something just now? As if you had something to be worried about." Meg's sky blue eyes were fixed on her now, she could tell; though she couldn't see them she could practically feel them boring into her, like augers.

"Christine…_are_ you worried?"

She bit her lip, willing herself not to speak, not to say anything, for fear of saying the truth.

"Christine," Meg's voice came again, and now all the playfulness was truly gone, to make way for both concern and interrogation. It was at times like these that Meg really resembled her mother, much as she disliked to admit it. "Is everything all right?"

She shut her eyes, wanting her to just go away, and leave her alone, in a sudden savage burst of emotion. Meg's hand came up to clasp her shoulder; she held firm, firm as a rock, an iceberg in a frosty sea; she tensed, as if to throw her off if need be.

_Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it…_

"Christine?" There was something of the child in Meg's voice again; but this time used as a type of foil; a bait to lure out a statement of sorts. "What's the matter?"

Still she said nothing. Her hands, clasping into the mattress like claws, were going numb; she could feel the coolness of the ring becoming rapidly warm. Still she would not speak.

"Do you want this marriage?"

There. There it was. As simple as that. Who would have thought five words could undo a person in such a way? Suddenly her iron resolve was gone, as was her ice; hot tears flooded out from her eyes, and down her snow cheeks; her support was lost, as her hands came away from the edge of the bed. Her head was on Meg's breast, she knew not how it came there; and Meg's hand was quietly smoothing down her unruly curls, and Meg's voice was whispering in her ear, as the former childlike of the two now comforted the one who had been an engaged woman, but now sobbed like a infant who had cut her knee or broken her crown.

"There, there," she heard the whisper. "Ssh, ssh, ssh. It's all right. It's all right." Again and again the mantra rang in her ears, trying to soothe her, to calm her, to cease her tears. Eventually, she felt the words somehow begin to take effect, as the lump in her throat slowly decreased, and her eyes ran out of tears, and were now simply sore. Gradually, her sobs melted away.

_The first time…the first time anyone's ever…_

There was silence between the two for a while, as she breathed and Meg kept stroking her head, seemingly desiring to do nothing else – nothing else at all. But at length the golden haired girl said, softly, "I am sorry, Christine. I should have seen it before."

"See what?" Her voice was harsh from sobs and tears, and cracked a little as she spoke.

"That you're unhappy," Meg said fiercely, abruptly. Just as abruptly, she released her head, and pulled her gently up by the chin, to look into her own eyes. "That you don't want to marry him. Well, you don't have to. We'll run away. We'll go somewhere, anywhere, as long as…will you _stop _laughing like that, you senseless girl?"

She was suddenly laughing so hard now, it was hard to believe she had ever been crying at all, even for herself. She wasn't quite crying again, but she felt she was quite close to tears, if she had had any left after her weeping fit. She clutched Meg's hands, as she laughed and laughed. Meg, from what she could see, looked both confused and indignant, which was better than looking upset and scared – though a little fear was emerging in the blonde haired girl's features as well.

_Better stop that at once._

Getting a grip on herself, she said gently – or as gently as she could, considering the circumstances – "It's all right, Meg. It all right. I'm not unhappy. I'm very, very happy indeed."

"Then why the simultaneous crying and laughing fits?" the other girl asked, still looking as she expected her to faint or something.

"Oh, Meg. It's just that…" She squeezed Meg's hands, trying to think of the right thing to say, the right thing to convince her of her own thoughts. "It's just that…please believe me, I _do_ want to marry Raoul. I really do. I love him, despite all I said about love at first sight." This managed to win a grin from Meg, and she smiled back, before she ploughed on. "But…you are the first person who's ever asked me if I actually wanted the marriage. The very first. Not even Papa…" she tailed off.

_Don't think about that. _Don't _think about it._

There was another silence, before Meg said, slowly, as if trying to understand a rather cryptic riddle, "You mean, your own father never asked you if you wanted to marry Raoul?"

"Well, it wasn't quite like that. He certainly asked me if I liked Raoul, and he was glad when I told him I did – he didn't want me to marry someone I couldn't even like, let alone love. But when that issue was resolved, all such questions ended. Since I liked Raoul, he had no qualm about letting the marriage go ahead." Christine smiled softly, her cheeks awkward from the stickiness of her tears, as she looked down at her hands holdings her friend's. "Papa was very loving – but he was also very eager to make sure I would be well provided for."

"But even so – to arrange the marriage without knowing if you wanted it or not!"

"It wasn't just Papa – it was everyone in the de Chagny family as well. They seemed to think I should be happy for the privilege of marrying their golden boy." She sighed. "They treated Raoul in much the same way. I don't know if he was in the same frame of mind as me – he certainly never asked me if I wanted the marriage myself."

"And do you want it now?" Meg ventured softly.

She considered. Her opinions had changed a lot from yesterday afternoon, when they had first arrived. Then, she had been apprehensive, and resigned. But after only a day or so of being reunited with Raoul, her outlook had quite changed.

_To get married…that is nothing desirable to me. But to _be _married…that is something quite different…_

"If you had asked me that when I was twelve," she replied at last, "even in the wake of Papa's death, I would probably not know. But now I can safely say _yes. _I do want to marry Raoul. Not because I am obliged to. Not because there is no other course for me to take. But because I _want _to." She squeezed Meg's hands in hers. "And I am happy. Please Meg, believe me. I am happy."

She was rewarded by the smile on Meg's face. "I am glad," the other girl said softly. "I couldn't have born it if you were not happy, Christine. I would not have been able to stand it." She leant forward, and kissed her gently on the cheek. "But now I know that you are."

"Meg?"

"Yes?"

"Please don't tell anyone about the – other proposal, will you? I have a feeling Philippe the Elder for one would _not _approve."

Meg giggled, finally dispelling the gloom that had settled on her face. "Never fear, Princess Christine, your secret and Prince's Raoul's is safe with me, the humble handmaid."

"I'm not a princess, Meg."

"You are, whatever you say," Meg said briskly, pushing herself up and off the bed, her diamonds – or rather _her _diamonds, if she thought about it – glittering in the candlelight. "And now the princess must get ready for bed. You've had a logn day, and I think you're still a little dizzy from that crying and laughing." There it was again; underneath her cheerful exterior, she was still worried for her, worried for her health, and her mind. She felt both a wave of love and affection towards her for her devotion and care, and annoyance that she couldn't expect her to take care of her self now.

_I'm not a child anymore. I don't have nightmares or headaches. Well…not often…_

"And her faithful handmaid will help her undress." She gestured with her fingers for Christine to stand up and turn around.

Grinning ruefully, she did so. "Don't think you're always going to be doing this, Meg," she shot back.

"I know that," Meg replied cheerfully, as she began to undo the fastenings on the back of the gown. "Soon you'll have lots of maids to help you dress and undress everyday. So I might as well make the most of it, while I still can."

"You mean take the opportunity to make me feel faint whenever you can," she called over her shoulder, as she slipped her earrings out of her ears, and began to undo her necklace. "I swear you lace my corsets so tightly I can hardly breathe sometimes."

She didn't touch the ring, though. She kept it on her finger.

It was only later that night, when Meg was gone after tucking her into bed, and she had blown the candle out, that she allowed herself to consider again, without the interference of her friend. But nothing had changed for her in that time. Nothing at all…

_I love Raoul. I _do_ love him. And I want to marry him._

_To get married is nothing special. But to be married…to him…_

She snuggled down further under the embroidered covers; feeling the by now warm circle of gold on her finger.

_I love Raoul. And I _am_ going to marry him._

_I am happy. I am so happy…_

_The most happy…_

She felt herself drifting off to sleep, even as she thought those words.

_The most happy…_

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Ah, yes, more R/C fluff – even thought Raoul wasn't there in this chapter. So I stuck in some interaction between Meg and Christine instead. Hey, we need to see the relationship between the two girls. I mean, they've been best friends since they were both twelve, so now Christine has a shoulder to cry on. Or a bosom…any way, I believe this may be…no, wait! I promised Mominator124 I wouldn't do stuff like that anymore! So you'll just have to wait and wonder, people! Sorry, but a promise is a promise!****

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READ! REVIEW! OBLIGE THE 'DIVINE' SEAMSTRESS, PEOPLE! (You have Willow Rose 3 to thank for that, by the way.)**


	9. Desires from the tomb

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, or Corpse Bride. I do own the DVD of the former, though, and the latter is set to come out in September or October. **

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I decided to slip this chapter in, while I was in the mood, while still waiting for reviews for the last chapter – thanks for reviewing, Moonjava! I am obsessed with the hits, even though I don't like them very much – they show how many people are reading my stories and _not _reviewing them! Sort of a cramp in my style, you know what I mean? Do you really not like it that much? Well, hard luck, I'm going on with it anyway!**

**So, more Erik for all you people who love him. And more regrets and general angst, yadda yadda. Enjoy!**

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'**The world is changed. I feel it in the water; I feel it in the earth; I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost; for none now live who remember it.'**

**The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring.**

**Desires from the tomb**

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Things were changing up above.

He had been aware of it for a while now; as he played at his organ, as he sat at his easel, as sketches poured from his fingers onto paper. Things were changing.

Of course, things were always changing up above, and he was always almost unconsciously aware of it, as he existed down below. He was aware of when it was spring, and when it was fall; when snow lay thick upon his grave, and when the only thing that covered his body was a layer of earth. A simple layer of earth lay between him and discovery; justice; vengeance…

But, of course, nothing would ever gain that justice for him. It was not as if he could clear the earth off his body, so that his grave would be open; and even if he could, no one went into the forest anymore any more. _Nobody except that corpulent head groundskeeper._ And it was not as if he could tap _him_ on the shoulder, point to his grave, and whisper _clue _in his ear.

_Justice. Life. Love. The three things I want most. The three things I can never have._

But that did not mean he was not willing to listen to what occurred up above.

_Four companions walked across the lawns…_

_Four visited the groundskeeper…_

_Four ate together, talked together, laughed together…_

_Two talked together…_

_One played…_

_One sang…_

He found himself being drawn further and further away from his work, even from his thoughts of _her, _and further and further towards life again – or as close as he could – when he heard that voice. _That heavenly, angelic voice…_

Sometimes, he thought it truly to be the voice of an angel. Other times he realized it was simply a mortal voice – but a beautiful one at that; of a girl – but there was not just one girl; _she_ had friends. That made it all the more difficult to identify her among the throng; three girls where before there had just been two women, one quiet, one sick and sad.

Sometimes, if he concentrated hard enough, he was just able to see them – at times. Sometimes while he sat at the organ he was aware of a blond haired little angel, with sky blue eyes and a pout that any mortal man would surely find adorable, sitting talking with others that he could not see; at other times a honey skinned, dark red haired young woman playing the piano in one of the music rooms, clearly of Spanish origin, often with a pout that was considerably less adorable, but with a type of slightly haughty, regal beauty that overcame her slightly protruding lower lip.

And she…

He saw her least of all, the brown haired, brown eyed girl, against whose beauty the other girls' paled in comparison; the girl who walked quietly and thoughtful, a seraphic smile sometimes curling her lips.

_But who sings?_

As time had gone on, he cared less for the girls, no matter how beautiful they were at times; and instead focused on the voice, whenever it sang.

_Singing…_

He often found himself abandoning his work, to simply lie on his back and stare up at the ceiling of his lair, and know that far, far above him, someone – he knew not who, but someone - was singing, as he listened…

"Erik?" a voice came in, much closer and much less welcome in his opinion; breaking off his current train of thought.

He looked away from the ceiling, and away from her who sang; and over at Nadir, who had suddenly appeared, and was standing on the edge of the shore of the lake, and looking disapproving. _As he usually seems to do, _he thought idly, as he looked back up at the bare earth and rock, only a little away from him.

"Erik, what are you _doing?_"

"Listening, Daroga," he replied, this time without looking away, and without breaking off his contact with the song.

"Listening to what?"

"Why don't you come on up and listen, Daroga?" he shot back.

With a sigh, the older being began to make his way along the shore, towards the frame which he had constructed long ago to display the tapestries he had fashioned, when he had run out of wall space - before he had worked out that he could expand the scope of his genius beyond the walls of the cavern – and had stayed ever since, if for nothing else then for him to lie upon when he wished to listen more to the earth.

Even though he was dead, Nadir was still quite slow, as he had naturally been in life; and he watched with secret enjoyment as the Persian clumsily clambered up the wooden frame, shaking the structure quite thoroughly. But he had no fears of it collapsing – he had built it well. Even if it did rock sometimes.

"You should have shifted your bulk around even more, Nadir," he remarked wryly, as the elder being finally shifted into place alongside him. "Then maybe we would have fallen off into the water of the lake, and drowned."

The Persian rolled his jade green eyes, as he settled back on his elbows. "Do you seriously think _I _could drown, Erik?"

"No," he admitted. "But I do think you would be stuck at the bottom of the lake for the rest of eternity, since you'd be far too heavy to get out."

Nadir sighed, but in exasperated humour. "And why this sudden burst of warped joviality, Erik?"

"Listen." He made no other reply, but lay back. Nadir, bemused, copied him.

And after a moment the song came again.

They both lay in relative silence, while the song washed around them, filled them, reverberated through the lair; filled the still air with such sweetness that it might cause some to weep, and others to applaud for an age, and others to simply listen in adoring silence. Such as they.

Such as _he._

_I love you, _he thought, as silently as he dared, with Nadir around at this time. _Whoever you are, wherever you are, I love you…_

At length, the song ceased. He sighed as he felt the connection break away, felt the silence and emptiness of his world break upon him once again, as he lost contact with hers.

_Hers…_

"Very nice," Nadir commented, as he looked over at him again. "You _have _been busy, haven't you?"

"I don't know what you mean, Nadir," he replied lightly, his eyes still closed, as if to imagine himself closer to the owner of that beautiful voice.

"Oh, I think you do, Erik," the older being replied, more quietly, as he sat up, to look down into his face. "Spending all your time, focusing on this one particular voice out of so many? So intricately?"

"It is nothing."

"I do not think so."

"Nadir, is it a crime to listen to those whom I left back on Earth?" he shot back, opening his eyes, to stare up into Nadir's green, solemn ones.

"Erik, the world has changed since you left it. The people have changed. The land has changed. Those whom you might have loved are gone. You have no connection with the Earth now."

"You forget. I shall always have _that_ connection."

"That does not change things," Nadir shot back, sitting up fully now. "The one thing that does not change on Earth is that everything changes. That is the rule, and you know it." His voice softened, as he leant forward. "The one thing that does not change down here is that everything remains as it always has been. And that includes contact with that which we have left."

"What would you know about it? You seem to have abandoned Earth utterly! Don't you _ever _wonder about those you left behind, Nadir? Any loved ones you may have had? Friends? Comrades? Look at me in the eyes, and tell me you do not yearn to live again!" he spat, suddenly savage as a demon.

_Tell me that, Nadir. Tell me that._

There was silence, as the two glared at each other, each without flinching.

"How can you know what I feel?" The answer took him by surprise. He had never heard Nadir speak with such an accent of sorrow before; such…regret. Passionate regret. "How can you know what I think of, each time I think of the surface? How can you know?" He turned away.

"Perhaps because you have never told me." He felt cruel in saying that, but he could not let himself loose face.

There was a pause, then Nadir turned back. "True. I have not told you. And if that is so, it is because of a reason. I spent so long in mourning for what I had lost, Erik. I don't want the same thing to happen to you; for I know that if you did you would never be released. So forget the world above, Erik, as well as you can; and forget the voice you hear." Nadir's face came very close. "It does not do well to dwell on dreams, and forget to live."

He snorted, in an attempt to break the serious air of the moment – he wasn't in the mood for this. "Somehow I don't feel I am living. Or have you forgotten this?" He put his hand to his side, tracing the edges of the terrible wound. "Have you forgotten your own?" He drew his finger across his neck.

"I am serious, Erik. I do not want you to be hurt."

"But I do hurt, Nadir. Every night and day." His voice came out almost in a whisper. "Every night and day. An eternity's worth of pain and loss."

The Persian said nothing for a moment. Then, softly, he whispered, "Do you want me to go?"

Blinking back sudden tears, he silently nodded, his eyes on the ceiling again.

The creaking of wood, and soon after the padding of feet, told him that his companion was gone. Only then did he allow himself to reach out, and touch a hand to the rock and earth of the ceiling; as if by doing so he would slip up through the layers of rock and earth and space, and up to her world, so that he might find the owner of that beautiful, beautiful voice.

_I love you, my Angel._

Her voice called to him, dragging him out from the deepest recesses of his mind, back to awareness, back to reality – back to yearning for something more.

_I love you, my Angel of Music._

_Sing once again for me._

And, as if in answer to his wish, once again he felt the song break forth over him; much faster, louder, stronger than before. Unconsciously, as he revelled in the beautiful sound, his own mouth opened, and he sang with that voice – _her _voice – together.

_I'm there…whoever you are, wherever you are, I'm there…inside your mind…_

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Anyone spot the quote from Harry Potter? Any takers? I know having that particular quote at the start _was_ pretty corny – but I just felt I had to have it in. I wrote this chapter because I wanted to show the relationship as how it was in the original book – which was that Erik fell in love with Christine's voice long before he met her. Of course, the fact that she's really beautiful and young and has a wonderful, if slightly weak (in the book at least, certainly not in my story!) personality doesn't hurt, I think. But anyway, it's not material stuff. I hope. When does the fun stuff and haunting come in? Ah, wait and see!****

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Review, please! I like reviews, if only small ones to tell me how bad it was!**


	10. Preparations

**Disclaimer: Ten chapters of asking, and ten chapters of the same old, same old - I don't own it. Happy?

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Moonjava: Two reviews in a row! Many thanks, honorable reviewer!

MetalMysersJason: Be patiant, h's coming! Hang on, he was in the last chapter? what are you moaning about, then?

K'Tscharae: (Wow, what a username - like a tongue twister!) Wish I could dwell on dreams more - although some dreams are not so nice. And forgetting to live is not a very good idea. Fiction is very good for exploring 'what if'. Look at Lord of the Rings and His Dark Materials, for one. I am glad you have decided it's good enouhg to review. I hope other people will see it from your point of view soon enough. I just thought the story 'fitted', for some reason. What with 'the living corpse' and everything. Thank you so much for reviewing; I hope I live up to your further expectations!

SimplyElymas: Yes, we are united in 'seamstrossity' your newest word. Make way for the new Shakespeare on the block! Meg and Christine are very sweet - a pair of girls who will grow up very fast indeed, trust me. Good for you, that you find Erik cuddely in all his forms. As well as Nadir...especially Nadir, in your case...

Starfire: I forgive you, so long as you like it. Wait, is there a flaw in that logic? I'm so glad you like it so much. I was just struck iwth the idea, and I was so inspired I just started writing it down and posting. I love Harry Potter as well. It's out in July! I think. Meh. I hope it continues to be as good as you hope it to be. And enjoy this chapter, okay?

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So, another chapter – only this time, all the way in the view of our little prima donna. Or Carlotta, in essence, since she isn't really a prima donna in this; just a Spanish girl who's been brought to France to get married off, and isn't making a very good job of it so far. About two weeks have passed sicne the events in Chapter Eight - as Chapter Nine might suggest - and as the wedding comes closer and closer, the girls are getting ready for the blessed event, in their own special ways. So read, and see what I mean.**

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Preparations

'**Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.'**

**Traditional rhyme for weddings. **

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Carlotta concentrated on her embroidery – surprisingly, she had let Meg talk her into at least trying it; and although she still did not have much of a passion for it she had done quite a deal since the fortnight in which the others had arrived. 

_More than I have ever done in my life before, probably._

Of course, she would much prefer to play the piano, but the others had ruled that they preferred her to remain in silence while they had their quiet time in the day; and since they put up with her playing the rest of the time, she felt it was only right for her to concede in this situation.

Since there was nothing for her to read, the only thing left to her was her embroidery. Fortunately it was not the odious black on white stitching that she had been brought up with, but something rather nicer; the twin handkerchiefs that she and Meg were working on, as a present for Christine, for her impending marriage. At first she had believed that Christine would not be impressed with handkerchiefs; but Meg, as she had persuaded her to stitch, also persuaded her that the items would be fine presents – personally made, to show their affection for her.

And it _was_ affection, in her case. She had only know Christine for about just about two weeks, but in that time she had come to regard her as closer to her than any of her so called 'relatives' in this country. Quiet but loving, the girl, who was only a few months younger than herself, was very sweet-natured; but not enough to be annoying to her, like Katherine, for she had a mischievous side as well – a side that Carlotta found very entertaining.

If Christine was Katherine, then Meg was certainly Rocío. The younger Giry definitely reminded her of her younger sister's sense of fun and adventure, but without any of her potential teasing or irritating personality. She only wondered what the duo must have been like back in Paris in their younger days, and what Christine and Raoul must have been like in their childhood together. Very wild, judging by what Buquet said whenever they trooped down to his hut to visit and talk with him, at least three times a week.

Briefly, she wished she could have had such companionship, instead of two painfully younger sisters, one too angelic and one too-

"Ah! _Merde!" _she hissed, as pain suddenly shot through her finger, and looking down she saw that she had unwittingly jabbed her needle into the aforesaid digit. Meg, who was sitting beside her and working on her own present, sighed; and swiftly pulled the material away lest she should get blood on it, leaving her to attempt to quell the pain in her hand. "Delicate ears," she scolded, glancing over at Christine, who sat absorbed in a book by the fire. Fortunately, she didn't look up, too interested in what she was reading. Satisfied that her interest would not be roused by what they were doing, Meg went on more jovially, though still quietly, "And besides, I wouldn't want Mamma thinking I'd been teaching you French swear words."

Carlotta paused in her attentions to her bleeding finger. "_Do _you know any swear words?" _Yet another side of the charming little angel?_

"Perhaps," Meg admitted. "But that's not the point, is it?"

"_Si," _she concurred grudgingly, or as well as she could as she sucked on her finger, the iron taste of blood filling her mouth.

Suddenly the door to the little parlour the girls had been granted to use as their own opened, and they looked up to see a footman standing in the doorway.

"Beg pardon, Mamselles; but Mademoiselle Daaé is to come to the Louis Philippe room as quickly as possible."

Christine looked up from her book, her tawny brown eyes shining with curiosity. "Why?"

The man bowed. "I believe it is because of the arrival of the Pastor Defarge."

"The Pastor?" Meg repeated slowly, as if hardly able to make sense of the word. It certainly didn't make much sense to Carlotta.

"The Pastor. Apparently the Comte Philippe the Elder wishes for a 'rehearsal' of the marriage ceremony."

"Very well. Tell them we shall be down directly."

As he left, Meg rose from her seat beside her, frowning. "Well, this is certainly unusual."

"You mean it is not a custom in France to have rehearsals?" she asked, as she got up in turn, carefully placing her sewing on her chair.

"Well, yes, but generally the day before the wedding – not about a week or so beforehand!" Meg shot back, as she glanced at Christine quietly marking her place in the book she had been reading, before standing up as well.

"It's their choice when the rehearsal is," she said mildly, placing the book on her own chair. "They are, after all, arranging the whole wedding."

"Yes, but it's _your_ wedding," Meg pointed out. "You should at least have some say about when you rehearse it. We've hardly had any peace the past few days; and now this!"

"You think I don't think that?" Christine replied wryly, as she threw her hand to her forehead, in mock drama. "Heaven knows I have more to be troubled about than _you,_ Meg Giry. You haven't been snapped in and out of dresses all week long, and measured and re-measured just to make sure the chosen wedding dress fits – as if they hadn't received the precise measurements we sent them eons ago." She sighed, as she lowered her head from her forehead; and for a moment, to Carlotta's eyes at least, she looked almost old, and tired. "And it isn't going to get any better after this wedding; only worse. Maids attending on me all the time, never leaving me alone even for a moment – more ridiculous gowns-"

"How _can_ you call the dress 'ridiculous'? God; if _I _got to wear a dress like that, I'd _never_ want for anything ever again!" Meg cut in, going distant eyed; obviously dreaming of wearing the dress herself.

"I certainly would," the other girl replied dryly, as she made for the door.

_So would I. _It was not that the dress was not beautiful – it was certainly lovely, made from cream and white silk and trimmed with foaming lace – but it was a little too extravagant for even her taste; she certainly would not wear such a garment at _her_ wedding, if she should ever take such a part in such an occasion; and so, it would seem, would Christine.

But, she was the bride; and a bride _must_ wear an extravagant white dress at her wedding, complete with a lacy veil. Christine had jokingly fussed about it at great length when they had been shown it only the other day – the latter had been _so _lacy, she had complained (in private, to them, of course) that she wouldn't be able to see where she was going with that thing over her face. _"And we shouldn't have to worry about bad luck if Raoul sees me before the wedding by accident – he wouldn't recognise me anyway."_

"_Oh, and there's going to be _lots _of girls wearing white dresses and veils at the ceremony; surely you be lost in the crowd," _Meg had quipped, making the three of them surrender to giggles, and dispelling the air of potential gloom that threatened to settle over them.

But it was settling upon them again, as they made their way along the various corridors – all three had by now become so familiar with the mansion that it took only a little while for them to make their way to the Louis Philippe room. Christine seemed distracted; biting her pink lips so that yet more colour came to them.

* * *

Pastor Defarge was certainly a surprise to all three of the girls – even Carlotta, who had never met him before, though she had been at the mansion for longer than the other two; the members of the de Chagny household were not great churchgoers, and for the past month she had not been able to attend a service on Sundays, a sore point with her. For some reason she, having learned that a pastor was a type of holy father in France, had expected someone like Padré Paolo back in Spain; a rickety old man, who looked as if a strong blast of wind, should it come, would surely topple him over. 

Pastor Defarge was nothing like that. For a start, he wasn't old; he was a relative child in the world of the church, being, she guessed, in his early thirties. And he certainly looked nothing like any of the French people she had so far met; his skin, tanned and darker than most here, reminded her of the complexions back home, in a way that oddly comforted her. If he had not been a man of the church, he could very well have attracted the favourable attentions of many women with his height and build and generous features; as it was he wore the cloth of his station with remarkable ease, and greeted them courteously and with a pleasant Eastern French accent when they had first entered the room.

Now he supervised over the laying out of the room; the clearing of the furniture to the sides, and the setting up one of the tables in front of the main window, which gave a fabulous view of the grounds; even the spreading of a table cloth over it, to make it look more like an altar.

Meg, standing next to her, nudged her, and whispered, "Do you think they're having the wedding now, and not bothering with all the expense?"

She snickered, as they watched the footmen set out various chairs for the 'congregation' – namely the Comtes Philippe the Elder and Younger, Genevieve, Bernard, Celandine, Louis, Meg's mother and themselves to sit on. Christine and Raoul, of course, would not be sitting; they were already standing in front of the table altar; Christine still chewing her lip, Raoul casting nervous glances around the room. Raoul really was a very sweet boy, in her opinion, but he got nervous much too easily, also in her opinion. It was not necessarily a flaw, just sometimes an annoyance – to be a success in the aristocracy, you had to have large amounts of confidence and a certain amount of brashness, neither of which the young Vicomte seemed to have much of.

But he was kind, and gentle, and most importantly he clearly loved Christine; and that was what was most important to her and Meg. But if he got this nervous in the drawing room, she hated to imagine what he would be like in the actual church…

"Would the Mademoiselles kindly take their seats?" came the Pastor's voice. It took her a moment to realize that he meant them; but already Meg was pulling on her sleeve and bringing her forward, a smile plastered across her face. She wondered idly if she would have smiled so much if Pastor Defarge had been older and not so handsome; but the next moment she rejected such a nasty thought. _Now I am beginning to think like the aristocrats._

The two sat down alongside Madame Giry - who was also by this time seated - and looked as demure as possible. She of course soon lost interest in what the Pastor was saying, namely because it had nothing to do with her. Instead, she watched the scenery in the window beyond him. The snow was still as white and almost blinding as it had ever been. Somewhere out there Buquet was making his obligatory rounds; and she actually found herself longing to go outside and walk along with him, even if they made no conversation; or even simply through the actual grounds, just for the sake of being outside. She blinked. _My, I have changed in the past few weeks._

She blinked again. There appeared to be some sort of argument taking place up at the table. She focused on what was going on. Apparently the Pastor, though up until now seemingly a pleasant and gentle man, was irritated. More than irritated, actually. Annoyed, even. His voice was raised in evident emotion. She raised her eyebrows.

"You must learn your words, Vicomte! You cannot be married properly unless you can say the words _perfectly!_"

"Perfectly?" Raoul's shoulders sagged.

She nudged Meg. "What is happening?" she hissed.

"If you'd been paying attention, instead of gazing out of the window, you'd know," Meg replied smoothly. "They have to exchange vows on the day; and Raoul, it appears, is not very good at leaning large chunks of prose off by heart. Or any large amount of words off by heart."

"He has had ten years to prepare for this; and he still does not know his words?" It didn't make sense to her at all. Even _she _wouldn't still be this in-adept after so long!

Meg nodded. "So it would seem."

"It's all right, Raoul," came Christine's comforting voice from up by the makeshift altar. "You just need to get them into your head, is all. It's really not that difficult."

"It's all right for _you,_ Christine," Raoul shot back, but good naturedly. "You've always been good at learning the words. For me, they just flow in one ear and out the other."

"Evidently," she heard the Comte Philippe the Elder mutter, with a slightly scorning air just behind her. She clenched her fingers at the sound of his voice; she couldn't bring herself to like Philippe the Elder, no matter what she did. He was always courteous to her, of course; but she could not forget the way he had questioned Christine on that first day, and how she had had to restrain Meg from making a leap at him, all the while burning with anger at how callously he regarded the girl whom at the time she didn't even know, but could still see was nothing of the sort that he suspected her to be. And he was disregarding of his own family members as well; from what she could tell he had arranged the marriage between Louis and Celandine. _And that turned out very nicely, didn't it?_

"Again, please, Mademoiselle and Monsieur," came the pastor's voice again.

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"Well, that was a disaster, wasn't it?" Christine remarked mildly, as they entered the small parlour once more, the rehearsal having broken up about ten minutes before. 

Meg shrugged as she sat down, taking up her sewing again. "Mamma always said that the worse the dress rehearsal is, the better the performance will be."

"How does that work, then?" she asked wryly, as she took up her embroidery herself, but did not sit down yet, as she set herself to untangling the threads that had somehow gotten extremely knotted together in the relative half hour she had been away.

Meg shrugged again. "I don't know. Mamma never said anything beyond that. I could ask her for you, if you like!" she added, now addressing Christine.

The other girl laughed. "No, no; I'll take your word for it." Her laugh turned into a sigh. "Oh, dear. Poor Raoul. It must have been _so _embarrassing for him. He never has liked learning phrases to recite. Or speaking in front of audiences. I remember one time," she went on, sitting back in her seat, "he had to recite a poem in front of the adults after dinner for some reason or another; and he was so nervous he actually vomited." She paused, and then added, with the mischievous smirk that Carlotta loved so well, "Of course, the whiskey he drank earlier might well have had something to do with it."

"What goes around comes around," Meg remarked without looking up from her work; but with a smirk of her own on her lips.

Carlotta gave up trying to sort out the threads, and instead walked over to Christine, as she opened her book again; leaning slightly over her she asked, with mild curiosity, "What are you reading?"

The other girl started – already she had been about to slip into her own little world of reading again. "Just a book I found in the library."

"Really?" she said, craning her head to try to see the name on the spine. "Who is it by?"

"Erik, I presume," she replied, turning to the first page so she could see the frontispiece.

"Just because he wrote that does not mean he wrote the book, you know."

"I know," Christine replied mildly, as she turned back to the page she had been on. "That's why I 'presume'. I was thinking of finding some poetry books for Raoul to read. Maybe reading and learning poetry will help him to remember what he has to say during the ceremony."

"Maybe. So, you will give him this book?"

"Of course. But only after I have finished reading it." And with that, Christine settled down in her chair, and was once more engrossed in her own little world.

For a moment she remained, looking down at her, almost curled up as she was in her armchair, her eyes scanning the pages before them. Then, with a sigh, she walked away, back to her seat; sat down, and once more began to endeavour to undo all the knots that had come about in her work.

Occasionally her eyes turned to she for whom the gift was being made. A white handkerchief, embroidered with different shades of blue, to adorn the white figure of the bride to be, the white dress that she would wear accentuating her pale skin. She could see it even now; that lovely, over the top dress; standing on its mannequin away in a room somewhere, covered up so as not to be ruined by dust; enshrouding the bride who was to wear it like a dress on a china doll.

She sighed internally, as she looked down at the design she was supposed to be embroidering at the moment – egg shell blue doves, a symbol of something; but of what she neither knew nor cared. Her finger was still aching from earlier, and hindering her work; and her eyes were hurting from peering so closely at the cloth, in such light.

_I hate sewing, _she decided. _If I ever get married, I'm never, ever going to sew._

**

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I don't know if anyone has noticed, but I have been making something of an effort with Carlotta's words and phrases. Theoretically my characters are speaking French, since they're in France and all; but since I don't really want to write the whole thing out in French I'm sticking with English for the time being. However, I feel a need to imply the difference of Carlotta's spoken French compared with the way the other characters speak. In 'POTO: What 'they' didn't want you to see!', I exaggerated her accent outrageously; here I decided to go for a different approach, and instead of emphasising vowel sounds simply tried to give her a slightly more clipped tone of speaking, implying that she thinks of what to say before she says it, and prefers to take easier routes of speech rather than string together complicated sentences and potentially give the wrong impression altogether. Her musings and thoughts are fluent, since theoretically she's thinking in Spanish, her mother tongue and the language she is most comfortable with; but her spoken words, which are in French – in the story, of course – are less fluent. **

**Also, I have made some changes to the character of the pastor in this crossover. In the Corpse Bride film the pastor is, as I have mentioned before, voiced by Christopher Lee, and is much older than thirty; but I decided to change his age for some reason known only to me – gad, potential forewarning again! I promised I wouldn't do that! Also, I changed his name – like most other names in this fiction – well, all, really, since I only know the names of the three main characters in the first place – not because I didn't like it, but because it was some Eastern European one I couldn't remember. Anyway, I got Defarge from A Tale of Two Cities, and I think it does very well.**

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Please review! I like reviews! They make the seamstress very happy, and I answer them nicely at the start of every chapter!**


	11. Trials and Tribulations

**Disclaimer: I don't own either POTO nor Corpse Bride. But I like watching POTO whenever I can, and will certainly go to see Corpse Bride when it comes out. Just so you know!**

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Moonjava: I am glad indeed you like. Thanx for the rather more lengthy review on Memoirs of a Trap Door Apprentice – I appreciate, and am glad you appreciate in turn! Thanx again for reviewing!**

**MetalMyersJason: I am glad you noticed, and that you liked what you read! Here is another post, just for you, my friend! Now READ!**

**musicallover: Thank you for being so generally gushing. Well, not gushing, but certainly appreciative. I am glad I am one of your favourites. I like people liking me! It makes me feel fulfilled. I can't wait for Corpse Bride either – like I said, when we first saw it in the cinema my sister and I were just a little freaked; but a little while after I thought of it and compared it with Phantom; and suddenly, at about half past ten at night, it clicked! It _was _like Phantom! One desiree, two desirers - only the other way around concerning genders. The rest is virtually history! Everyone always does do Beauty and the Beast, 'cos it's that kind of story, I guess, and B&B always ends happily – gives them a chance to end Phantom happily as well! Patience; your desired chapter will be along soon…Damn; foreshaodwoing again! Sorry everyone!**

**Willow Rose (3?): Heya! Thanks for crushing me in a hug! I'm always doing it to other people; now I know what it feels like – and it _hurts…_anyway, glad you like your new laptop. And I think Flippy is a lovely name for it. Honest! I'm glad their fabulous – Ab Fab! Enjoy this one! I repeat, enjoy! And blessed be indeed!**

**SimplyElymas: Sadly, there's no embroidery in this chapter for you to glomp. There's a nice dress, though! I guess we all forget our lines once in a while – apart from my sister. Seriously. Ever heard of 'Xanadu'? Well, Lucie learnt the whole of that _off by heart _for her Speech and Drama exam. I can't beat that, dammit. And I'm supposed to be the literary one in the family! Poor Raoul, indeed. No doubt Raoul bashers are cheering me on to make him stupid. Well, I won't. So there.**

**Mominator124: No problem, luv. Anything for a faithful reviewer. The real action will begin soon, I promise – dammit, I'm doing it _again! Darn! _Sorry! But EC will come! Aaah! Couldn't stop myself from saying that!**

**Carkeys: Interesting username. I'm glad you love it. When will he come? Ask and you shall receive – oh, the writer above you is _so _going to have my head on a plate for that. But I shall just stick it back on again, as Andrew Lloyd Webber seems to do so well.**

**Ripper de la Blackstaff: Hi back! It's original, yay! I get a royalty for thinking of it, I hope! Raoul doesn't know his words; but he will _not _be going into the forest and so on and so forth. Don't get me wrong, I don't have anything against slash phics. I just don't like writing them. OR reading them. In any case, the title – 'Corpse groom' – wouldn't be accurate, since if it _was _a slash they wouldn't be able to get married, being in France in the nineteenth century. They probably wouldn't be able to get married even today, unless they went to Amsterdam or something. I hope I won't let it down either, believe me!**

**Morianerulz & Carlotta: You read a story called 'Coprse Groom', you have to expect a little morbidity. The way of the world, I guess. Just one of those things. Ah, life. Loath it or ignore it, you can't like it. Or is that the other way around? Anyway, glad you all like…I think.**

**Lydiby: You're welcome, luv! I promise I will try to make this as simple as I can – I know what's going to happen; just not sure how to get there yet! Oh well. _C'est la vie. _Here is the update – I hope you like! Cheers to you too, and chips and so on!**

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So, now we see from alternate views – view points which we haven't used for a while now. It's time for our beloved Madame Giry to take the stage once more – and some other characters. But no more! Read, and see!****

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Trials and Tribulations

'**All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.'**

**William Shakespeare.**

Renée Giry had worn some extravagant outfits in her time. There was that gown she had worn at _that_ truly odious ball, when she had been the not-quite escort of the Comte du Lamballe; a ridiculously over-elaborate creation of yellow silk and beading, seemingly attempting to make up for the obvious intent of he who had given it to her. And there had been the unfortunate incident with the Gisle dress, which had been far too over the top, in her opinion, for someone who was supposed to be dead and risen from the grave; when it had slipped down in mid performance and practically exposed her rather diminutive corset, and all the flesh that it failed to conceal – though her husband to be, who had been watching the performance, had certainly not been unappreciative of the unplanned display.

_But this…_she thought, as she ran a hand over the black silk of the dress that now lay upon her bed, _this outdoes everything._

She had rarely seen such a dress that was so lavish and at the same time so elegantly simple, even in the old days of her triumphs upon the opera stage and afterwards in the foyers; fashioned in a style that would not look out of place on the lithe frames of Japanese geishas that she had seen in prints and even occasional photographs, the dress – more of a black and gold kimono, actually – lay upon her bed, as if the woman who had worn it before had simply lain down to rest, and in doing so had melted away, leaving the extraordinary garment where it lay.

Renée idly wondered who had worn the dress before her. It was obviously far too much to believe that it had been made especially for her; but she guessed that it had probably been brought out of storage somewhere; for her.

She sighed. She couldn't accept this. It was, of course, very kind of Comte Philippe the Younger to provide it for her, at such short notice; but she still could not accept it. She wasn't prepared to accept favours from the man, just so that she could fit in at that wretched masquerade ball they were having.

Besides, she knew how such a game worked – you couldn't live two weeks in the Opera House without learning how such games worked – and she knew that if a single woman starting receiving favours from a single man, there was bound to be assumptions at the least, let alone rumours. She couldn't risk her Meg falling under the shadow of suspicion of having a widowed mother who had an 'understanding' with a Comte. And in any case, she would never betray Georges; even if her morals were not so strict.

Meg, bless her, wouldn't see it like that at all; at least not at first. If the dress had arrived while her daughter was present, she knew, she wouldn't have had a moment's peace until she had at least tried the thing on.

It really was a very beautiful dress, though. There were special hairpins, to tie her hair back in just such a way as to suit the outfit.

There was even a fan…

_Oh, for goodness sake._

She turned her back on the dress, and marched to the door. Then, on second thoughts, she doubled back; and hid the outfit, complete with its trimmings, in one of the many chests of drawers in the room. She didn't want a certain someone – or some ones – coming across the gift, and making assumptions.

That task having been carried out, she left her room, with one purpose in mind; to find the Comte, and have a polite but firm talk with him, and tell him, once and for all, that she would go in her own clothes to this ridiculous masquerade, if she went at all.

Of course she would first have to find him; and that could prove a daunting task, in a house like this. She decided to start with a basic search plan – finding out if someone else knew where he was. So saying _– or rather thinking – _she proceeded to make her way along to one of the smaller drawing rooms, where the Comte's two sisters were usually to be found.

Only in this case, it was only one to be found. As she pushed the door open, the Cometess du Barry looked sharply up from her book, where she sat by the fire. But she was alone; for the first time since Renée had met her. That in itself was an anomaly; the younger, former de Chagny sister was almost never by herself these days, for all that she did not speak to anyone other than her close family. Renée had long given up trying to engage the woman, who really was not much older than Christine and her own Meg, in conversation; she seemed almost drained of any emotion whatsoever, as well as her voice; caused by the treatment of her husband and his continuing infidelities. _That man is truly a pig._

But all the same, Renée did not overly pity her. From what she knew, Celandine had given in far too easily. She had no time for women who did not make an effort to make their lives easier. And, as far as she could tell, Celandine had no time for her, either, as she wallowed in her own self pity.

So it was all the more of a surprise to her when the young woman actually tried to smile, though it seemed to cost her a great deal, and setting down her book, stood up, in order to speak.

"Are you looking for anyone, Madame Giry?" came her voice, slightly cracked – whether from tears or simply general disuse Renée had no idea.

"Yes – your brother, Madame. I was wondering if you had seen him around anywhere lately."

Celandine's forehead creased in thought. "I think he has gone to the library – he seemed annoyed about something, but I did not know what. He may still be there."

"Thank you, Madame. That is where I shall look," Renée replied, still keeping her voice calm and polite, and keeping back her surprise at Celandine's sudden talkativeness. Why, she had said more now than ever before, to her at least!

Though she was eager to find the Comte, she was also eager to cultivate this possible friendship, if for no other reason than because there would be one more person to talk to in this beautiful but vast and lonely house. And so she said, quite without thinking, "Are you looking forward to the masquerade, Madame?"

There was no perceptible change in the young woman's face; but it was as if a light had suddenly gone out in her eyes, leaving cold, dead lamps in their wake. But to her credit she spoke, and Renée heard only the barest quiver in her voice as she did so.

"Yes. Very much so. There will be many guests, I believe. La Sorelli, all the way from Paris, for one."

She said no more; but her silence told Renée all she needed to know. She had heard, while still in Paris, that La Sorelli, the newest star in the _corps du ballet, _was 'on terms' with somebody already, after only a few dances on the stage; and her wonderings about this mystery patron were now answered. _How many mistresses does this man have? And to openly flaunt his latest one, in front of her…_

Celandine, in the meantime, was attempting to smile again. "I hope you find my brother soon, Madame Giry," she said, softly, her voice catching at the end of the sentence. She paused, as if she would say more, but then suddenly choked, turned and fled the room. But even her flight was not swift enough to prevent Renée from seeing the sparkle of tears at the corner of her eye.

She sighed internally, as she exited through her own door. _More complications…_

_

* * *

Oh, the Devil take it. The Devil take it…_

Philippe looked around in distraction at the piles of books lying around him. He seemed to have pulled every single book in this part of the library off the shelves; and yet there was no sign of _that _one. And now he was going to have to entertain the possibility that it had been taken. _Again._

But by whom? Any number of people could have entered the library in the past two weeks, and taken it at any time; and he had no way of knowing. No way of knowing at all…

_I should have dropped the damn thing down a well. Or into a fire, preferably. But I _had _to put it back in the library! The least I could have done was hidden it a little better…_

But he had. He had tucked it away somewhere so obscure in the shelves of the library that he had thought no one would ever venture to that particular spot to look for a specific book. But apparently someone had. And had taken the specific book.

_Damn. That book's trouble. I know it is._

"A problem, Comte?"

He started, turning around. He had not realised that he was not alone in the library – until now, when it was far too late.

"Madame Giry."

"Comte." The woman nodded her head, but did not go into the bother of performing a curtsey. Strangely, he was not annoyed by this. Well, technically speaking he _was, _but not as irritated as he knew he should by all rights be, in the face of less respect. Then again, he was tired to women curtseying to him like grass in a wind storm all the time, and men bowing. It was a change to have someone stand straight when greeting him.

"I hope that there isn't a problem?" the women went on, casting a glance at the relative mess of the bookshelves. He did so as well, doing his best to appear calm and refined.

"_Non, Madame. _Simply trying to find a book, that is all."

"Any specific one?"

"Just a poetry book," he replied firmly. The woman was looking at him with that icy blue stare of hers that he knew so well from the past two weeks; and he had no desire to be on the receiving end of it.

_Or do I?_

To quell the treacherous little voice in his mind, Philippe swiftly asked, "Have you had a chance to try on the dress that I sent you?" He secretly delighted at the thought; the dress was surely a way of finally breaking the ice between the two that had lasted ever since she had first come with Meg and Christine, and been potentially humiliated at _Grand-pere's _hand. He had hoped she would see it as a type of olive branch, being the perceptive woman that he judged her to be.

So her reply to his enquiry was all the more surprising, and slightly shocking. "That is what I have come to speak to you about, Comte. I am very grateful for your gift, but I do not feel I can accept it."

"What? Why?" he heard himself blurt out, staring at her. At the same time he was aware of the slight amusement in her eyes at his reaction; and he became silently furious.

"Because it is much too great a gift for me, Comte, I must confess," the woman was saying, even as he fumed, "and besides, I have no shortage of dresses for this – masquerade, if I must so attend." She nodded her head again, and to him her smile seemed to silently mock him.

_I do not need this, _he thought, even as he struggled to obtain a grasp on the situation again – or more likely a stranglehold. "Madame, I see no reason why you should not wear the dress. Surely there is nothing the matter with it?"

"Oh, there is indeed nothing wrong with the garment – it is simply that I do not believe that I am worthy of such a rich gift. You should not have troubled yourself over me so greatly, Comte." Giry's eyes seemed to be fairly sparkling with mischief; to him almost intolerably. "Good day to you, sir."

She made as if to walk away; but hardly without realising what he did his hand was suddenly around her wrist, holding her, pulling her back to face him. _You're not going to get away so easily, Renée Giry._

It was a moment before he realised what he was doing – that, in effect, he could be accused of molesting a lady; of even abusing her, perhaps. For a very tense two, perhaps three heartbeats he stared down into the woman's face; waiting for her to pull away from him in outrage, or shout angrily, or do something, anything, rather than stare back at him with those icy blue eyes of hers, which her daughter had obviously inherited.

_Very fine eyes indeed…_

He forced himself back to the matter in hand; that was that she, apart from giving a short, quickly suppressed gasp, had made no sound at his potentially violent prevention of her leaving. He took the opportunity to speak. Leaning forward, he said softly, without letting go of her wrist, "Worthiness of such a gift is not the issue, and you and I both know that, Madame. Now, tell me the real reason why you will not accept it."

For a moment there was silence in the library, except for their own breathing. Then, with a slight shrug, and a small smile, Giry said, "It is a fact of life which always emerges, Comte – when a woman with a child, no matter how grown, receives gifts from a man of higher class, even when there's no father, people talk." With a sudden, swift motion, the woman propelled herself up onto the balls of her feet, to whisper in his ear – for the Comte stood more than half a head taller than her – "And I believe you would rather keep the de Chagny name clean, even when your brother-in-law threatens to drag his own through the mud; hmm?"

"…yes," Philippe managed to get out, after a moment's hesitation; and swiftly released her wrist, as if it had scalded him. "I did not realize when I sent it to you that it would offend you so. I am sorry."

"Oh, I am not offended, Comte. I merely take precautions," the woman replied, as she settled back onto the soles of her feet again, having been released. "My motto, even when I danced, was 'I make sure'." She flashed him a rare smile, that actually showed her teeth for once. "And it still is."

_I wonder what inspired her to create that motto? _the tiny part of his mind whispered to him. Trying desperately to force himself to stop conjuring certain possibilities concerning she who stood before him, he merely replied, "A very admirable theory, and one that we all should adopt, I am sure."

She smiled back, her teeth gone now, but her lips still curved. "I must take my leave of you, Comte. Unless you would like some help with your book?"

"Book?" He passed a hand through his hair, hoping that it was not shaking.

"The one you were looking so avidly for," Giry pressed, looking over his shoulder, no doubt at the pile of books that had been taken off the shelves, "when I interrupted you in your labour. But perhaps I had best leave you to it."

"Yes. Perhaps you had."

The woman nodded again. _"Bien. _I will see you later then, I trust, Comte?"

"Of course, Madame."

As Giry walked away, Philippe leant back against the bookcase, and raised a hand to his temples, attempting to quell his suddenly aching head. He was exceptionally glad no one had been there to see that; to see him so bested.

_That book?_ He had hardly so much as thought of the thing since he had first begun to talk to her. His mind had been on other matters entirely.

* * *

Philippe would perhaps have been comforted if he had seen the way that Renée Giry, the moment she had quitted the library, walked down the corridor and leant against a door frame, reciprocating his action of bringing the hand to the forehead – the only differences being that her hand shook slightly as her fingers caressed her brows; but also she grinned softly, as if at some private joke that no other had any part in.

* * *

Meg picked up the book that her friend had left upon her bed, and examined it with mild curiosity.

"Good book, is it?" she called to the corner of the room, where Christine was pulling something out of the wardrobe.

"Very good. It has some beautiful poetry in it. I don't know if you would like it, though."

"I can try it, at least. May I borrow it?"

Christine laughed. "If that's what you want, I'm not really the right person to ask, since it doesn't belong to me. Yes, you can; but don't lose it. I want to give it to Raoul tomorrow."

Meg sighed. "What a wedding present – a book of poems!" She flopped down into the chair, opening the book at a certain page. "And you-"

She stopped, as she caught sight of what Christine was wearing. It was not that it was bad – a dark green velvet riding suit, with a matching cape and smart riding hat, suiting Christine's colouring to perfection – it was rather more her purpose for wearing it that puzzled Meg.

"And where are _you_ going?" _Good grief, I sound more and more like Mamma these days._

"Out riding, of course," Christine replied crisply, as she picked up her kid gloves from her makeup stand.

"I can see that, Christine. Why, exactly?"

"I want to see someone about a certain matter."

"Who?"

The dark haired girl sighed. "Pastor Defarge, if you must know. I want to ask him something."

"Christine, you'll see him tomorrow at the masquerade anyway? While go out in the cold when you can wait until then to ask him whatever you want to ask him?"

"Because – because it's very important, do you see what I mean?"

Meg considered. "Something about the wedding?"

Christine pulled on her gloves. "Something about Raoul."

She stood up, laying the book down. "Then I'll go with you."

"No." The abruptness of this made her check, staring at her friend. "I'd rather go alone, Meg, if it is all right with you."

"Why?"

"I'd just rather, that's all."

She gazed seriously at Christine. "Christine, why are you going out alone? It's early afternoon; Pastor Defrage lives a long way away – surely you won't get back before nightfall?"

"I'll be fine, Meg. I'm not a little girl, I can go out riding on my own."

"But across countryside that's unfamiliar to you? In the snow?" Meg stepped forward. "I'd rather you didn't."

"I'd rather I did." Christine shot back, cuttingly. The force of her words made Meg take a step back.

"Christine…what's the matter? What have I done to make you so angry?"

Christine said nothing for a few seconds. Then, she sighed. "Oh, Meg. It's not you. It's…it's just everything. This whole mansion. The whole wedding. My whole life."

"What do you mean?"

"Ever since we came here, I've hardly been by myself for one minute; and I can't expect something like that to emerge again in the very near future." Christine sank down to sit on the chair arm. "I'm tired, Meg. Tired of being heir to the Daaé estate; tired of the prospect of being the future Vicomtess de Chagny; tired of beign a good, perfect little girl, waiting for her wedding. I'm tired of it all. Just for once I want to spend an afternoon as I did in the days before this, before…" She paused, and then went on, in a different tone. "I just need a change. Some fresh air and a long ride will do me good, I am sure. I need to get out of the house for a while; without anyone knowing where I am." She smiled, rather awkwardly. "You understand, don't you?"

Meg nodded silently. She understood all too well.

"So, I'll just ride over and see the Pastor; and I'll be back as quick as I can, I promise."

"What shall I tell them if you miss dinner?"

"That I feel a little sick; I'm in my room and do not wish to be disturbed, by anyone. That I'm resting for the masquerade tomorrow." Christine got up again, and made for the door; then backtracked, and planted a quick kiss upon Meg's cheek. "I'll see you later."

"I wish I was going with you. This place is beautiful, but you can have too much of a good thing."

"I just…need some time to myself, Meg. Some time to think."

And Christine had been gone nearly five minutes when Meg said out loud, to the empty room, "To think about what?"

She didn't expect an answer; and of course she didn't receive one. Dully she sat down in her chair again, and looked at the pages of the book without seeing them. Somehow, she had lost all her candour and enthusiasm for reading the thing.

She could not help thinking, over and over again, until it became almost a beat in her brain: _Something has happened. But I don't know what._

**

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And Madame Giry has her moment! Ah, why shouldn't she have a chance to make a man feel confused and awkward? In this Giry's about thirty-seven or thirty-eight, and not hideously deformed,so she still has capable flirting abilities – and if you don't like it, lump it.****

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More coming soon! Keep your eyes peeled – and your mouses ready to click on the review button. Or is it mice? Whatever, just review, people, and oblige the seamstress. Hey! _Another _catchphrase is born!**


	12. A grave misunderstanding

**Disclaimer: I don't own either of them. I suspect that if I did, I would be very rich, even though I don't know if the as yet unreleased film is going to be a success.**

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Moonjava: Nice chapter, hmm? Good. I'm glad. And thanks for reviewing, my most loyal one – or so it would seem…**

**MetalMyersJason: Be careful what you wish for – it may come true…**

**SimplyElymas: Yeah, I wanted my Giry to be tough! And slightly sexy! Who say you can't be sexy in you thirties? My mum was thirty-five – or maybe thirty-six – when she married my dad, and she had my sister and me, so she didn't do too badly. Poor Christine indeed. And it's not going to become any easier for her. Damn; more foreshadowing! But we know that anyway, really!**

**Mominator124: Yes, E/C rules indeed. I cannot answer your question, because you would probably kill me. And I can't tell you why you'd kill me either. I know; let's just call the whole thing off, okay? I thought it would be fun to stick those two together, because Sorelli's with the lecher –and who said she had to be Philippe's mistress? Thanks for the review, Barb!**

**Pertie: Welcome! I thought it would make a nice change – I like good crossovers as well. If you like them, you should read Gevaisa's Dear Professor Xavier – it won an award for best crossover phic! Here is another chapter!**

**Morianerulz & Carlotta: (Boy is your username hard to spell out properly!) I wanted my Carlotta to be slightly sympathetic. I mean, in practically everything else she's a cow – thought it would be a nice change to have them friends, instead of foes – not that they have much to be foes about. Morbid can be very nasty. Hopefully my morbidity won't be too bad.**

**Ripper de la Blackstaff: You were just _waiting _for a chance to say that, weren't you? Well, here's your precious chapter. No disaster; I don't need any at the moment – I've got three stories (one of which isn't going all that well) _and _a book on the go. Just read and enjoy.**

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And yet another foreword. And it is this:**

_**Expect the unexpected.**_

**The chapter speaks for itself. **

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A grave misunderstanding

'**Blest be he that spares these stones, and cursed be he that moves my bones.'**

**Epitaph of William Shakespeare.**

Christine stared down into the depths of her mug of milk – it had been the best Defarge had been able to offer her, since he certainly did not drink alcohol himself; and it would have been unseemly for him to offer it to her even if he did – and was evidently doing her best not to meet his eye. She clearly felt embarrassed enough as it was; sitting in a vestry with a priest she hardly knew, talking about her wedding which was to come in less than a week.

_What do I say? _Defarge did not have a great experience of dealing with women, considering his profession since relative boyhood. Though he attempted to be as courteous as he could towards them, the fairer sex generally remained a relative mystery to him; and there were times when he wondered if this arrangement was as satisfactory as he at other times convinced himself it was. Not that he would ever give up his profession, in exchange for a marriage of his own – the church was his first and foremost love.

It was just that, on occasion, he wished he had been given the chance to have a love other than the church.

_In the meantime…_

"I do not see why you should worry, Mademoiselle," he said carefully, his voice cutting through the silence, attempting to break the stalemate. "Though I was angry at the Vicomte a few days ago, I did not truly mean it in my irritation. But," he added, sitting back slightly in his chair "it is an important point – the Vicomte must learn his vows for the marriage ceremony in order for the said ceremony to proceed as intended."

"But that is what I wanted to speak to you about," the young woman replied, looking up from her mug, with a beseeching air. "Raoul becomes so nervous when he is required to speak in public; and especially long pieces; you really do not know – I worry about him."

"Are you suggesting I cut the sacred vows of marriage right out of the service, Mademoiselle?" he asked, half jokingly; but also partially to hopefully imply the magnitude of this situation upon her; that the ceremony was not simply something that could be moulded or shaped at will.

"No, Pastor, indeed not," the young woman said quickly, shaking her head so that a few dark brown curls whisked across her face, a small smile framing her pink lips – he hurriedly tore his gaze away from _those_, to instead focus on her deep brown eyes, gazing at him piercingly. "But I wonder if you could provide him with…a shorter version, perhaps?"

_A shorter version? _He felt inclined to laugh, but also felt that might hurt the feelings of the she who sat before him, looking at him so hopefully. "Certainly, Mademoiselle, if such a version existed, I would certainly provide him with it, so that you might be married to your lord without any hindrance."

She in turn had the grace to smile. "I know you must think me rather foolish, Pastor-"

"Mademoiselle!"

"-for pressing you with such requests at a time like this," she went on determinedly, despite his exclamation of the moment before. "A girl, a few days before her wedding, fretting herself about whether her husband-to-be will be able to say his words properly; that he might forget them altogether, and ruin the most special day of her life! Certainly I myself would think it foolish." She looked down into her cup again, and sighed.

Defarge sighed internally himself. "My child…are you unhappy?"

She looked up swiftly. "No, Pastor! Why would you think that?"

And she said it with such an air of finality that he knew there would be little point in pursuing the matter further. Still, he tried. "If you have any problem, my child, you know you can come to me at any time."

The young woman quivered, as if she had been struck. Then, abruptly, she looked up. "Pastor…I…in some ways, I do not look forward to this wedding. Is that so wrong?"

"In what ways do you fear, my child?"

Christine took a breath, then lowered her gaze again. "I…I must confess. I know that I will be happy, married to Raoul. I know it. And I know that I love him, and that he loves me." She looked up once more, her brown eyes filled with a sudden fire. "I know this! Father, I know! It is not Raoul which causes my doubt…at least, I hope it is not. It is just that, after this wedding, I cannot…I cannot see anything else. When I imagine my marriage, I have a wealth of imagery to sustain and inspire me. But after my marriage…I draw a blank. That is what I am afraid of, father. Not the wedding; the nothing which comes after it. I will not know what to do, when it comes to that." Her voice trailed away into nothing.

Unconsciously, Defarge reached out and gingerly touched her on the hand; then settled his over hers, in what he hoped was a comforting manner. Certainly he did his best to smile, and after a moment she looked back up, the smile reaching her own lips, though not her eyes. "I'm sorry, Pastor-"

"You have nothing to be sorry about, Christine," he said swiftly. "It is not a sin to be afraid of the future. And if it is, you are certainly acquitted of it."

At that, the smile did seem to reach her eyes; and she squeezed his hand in return; and he thought, yet again, what a beautiful, sweet girl she was – or must have been, for she had outgrown her childishness; the beautiful young woman she now was, then, and how the Vicomte must count himself lucky indeed to be worthy of her love. If he were in a position to be married, how fortunate would he count himself, if he were able to have her hand! As a neutral personage, however, he was simply able to admire the future Vicomtess de Chagny, without risk of losing his own heart.

And then, abruptly, the moment was over. She had stood up, and was even now making her way to the door, pulling her leather riding gloves back on. Hastily he got up, stumbling slightly on his robes, as he made after her. "Are you leaving so soon, Mademoiselle?"

She shot him an apologetic smile. "It is late, Pastor; and I promised Meg I would be back as soon as I could. I would not have her worry too much." Halting suddenly, she doubled about and clasped his hands in her now gloved ones. "Thank you so much for listening to me, Pastor. And for enduring my talk about shortening the sermon!"

He laughed gently. "I promise that when I attend the masquerade ball tomorrow, I will provide my solution to your dilemma."

Outside – having gone through the side entrance to the vestry the air was cool, and fresh; it was late afternoon, and the sun was already beginning its inexorable descent. Christine climbed into the saddle with a true horsewoman's seat, he un-roped the animal from where it had been tethered; and with a hurried "Farewell!" she was gone, riding back up the path and over the bridge which led to the fairly secluded church in the first place.

Defarge watched her until she was merely a green speck upon a whiter speck; and then went back inside the vestry, to prepare the candles for the evening. He would not need them for the mass; there was no mass this evening.

Yet for all his attempts to reassure her, Christine still seemed ill at ease, somehow. It was a frustration when he, as a priest, could not manage to minister to his flock; but he suspected that what troubled Christine was an ill that not even he would be able to remedy – it was the sort that must remedy itself.

Still, he could not get that glimpse of her face out of his head; when she had been squeezing his hand, and smiling; but her eyes had told quite a different story. He had never really believed in the eyes carrying such emotion; but in that moment he had felt as if she were a drowning person, and, if he had stretched out his hand further than just her skin, he would have saved her.

* * *

Christine made sure she was out of sight from the church before she urged her horse into a canter, and then a gallop; but not so that she would be back in time for dinner in the mansion. No; dinner was far from her mind. Her mind. The mind of the bride…

The bride who sat forward in her seat on the white horse, dappled with grey; her virgin weeds of green rippling against her even though they were close fitting, rippling in the resultant wind; the only thing white about her was her skin, though even that was turning red from being whipped by the wind…

_Round the green gravel the_ _grass is so green,_

_And all the fine ladies that ever were seen_

_Washed in milk and dressed in silk_

_The last that stoops down shall be married-_

"_Hya!"_ She cried out to urge the horse on faster, harder; the wind hit her across the face and tangled through her hair; she was glad for the hatpins holding her head gear on.

_She kissed him, she hugged him,_

_She sat upon his knee,_

_She said, dear Prince, won't you marry me?_

_Will you marry me, Christine?_

With a crow of delight she threw her head back, in a most unladylike manner; and as if to finish the deal her hat was suddenly ripped away by the wind, taking several pins with it; and part of her hair she knew now streamed out behind her, like a glorious banner; like a warrior maid, leading her troops into war. But she cared not. Let the wind howl and blow at her; let her lose all her hair pins, and return like an ancient virgin of old, with her hair tumbling down around her face; let her future in-laws be horrified; let Raoul and Meg worry themselves sick; let Carlotta be disapproving at her disobedience: she cared not! For one glorious evening, or even night, she would not be Christine Daaé, she would not be the future Vicomtess de Chagny; she would simply be Christine. Be herself.

_There's a lady on a mountain_

_Who she is I do not know_

_All she wants is gold and silver…_

She laughed at the thought of that particular verse in the book, as she switched her mind from nursery rhymes to what she had read in the last few days. She was not a lady on a mountain, and she knew who she was, at least for now; and the last thing she wanted was gold and silver – she wanted to ride, and sing her heart out; and forget her fears of what was to come.

_Tomorrow be damned!_

So she rode, and rode, along the winding road, away from that which she knew, away from the mansion where everyone was waiting for her to come back and take a seat at the table; and with every beat of the horse's hooves that shuddered through her body she wished as if she could ride out of her old life, if only for one night.

_

* * *

Closer…_

_Further…_

_Nearer…_

He knew something had changed within him, in the days since _she _had read the book. As the verse had flowed into her soul, strength had somehow seemed to flow into him. But it was not just from her reading of the words he had written; people had done that since he had died – it was how the words had taken shape inside her mind. How she had secretly sung them to herself, making up rhymes, melodies; letting what he had created become part of her.

If ever life could be brought to the Dead, it surely was in this way.

And now, now he was as close to the border of the Land of the Dead as he could be; as close as he could possible manage; though it strained him deeply. But he was rewarded by more and more glimpses of _her_. It sustained him. It gave him the strength he needed to maintain himself.

She was beautiful, and she rode as if she and the horse were one creature…yet in her wind-whipped face her eyes were oceans of brown, and in them there was loss.

* * *

She knew the warning signs for when a horse was tired, and her steed was clearly showing them by the time they reached the trees of the wood. Taking the message, she slipped off the panting animal's back, and pulling off the gloves ran her hands over the sweating flanks. But the animal was fine; it would just need a few minutes rest.

She tethered the horse to a tree – after wiping her hands on her handkerchief, of course - by its reins, so that it would have some room to move about without choking itself, and then looked around her, running a hand through her hair. Her hair…what a sight she must look, with tangled locks all over the place, her hat gone along with many of the pins to hold it in place, her normally porcelain face whipped pink by the winds of their run. But she hadn't felt alive in such a way for, it seemed, forever.

Where was she? She had no idea. It had all melded into one, as she had crouched down low in the saddle and cried like a wild girl for the horse to run, and run; and the countryside had fused into a blur as they had rushed past; for years and years, or maybe only for a few minutes. She looked up at the sky. Already the light was fading; she could see the first of the stars. Soon night would fully fall.

_All right._ She would wait for the horse to recover, and then they'd go back – only at a more gentle pace than when they has come. And, maybe, if she was lucky, she would find her hat on the way back. But she wouldn't count on it.

They'd probably be furious at her – but she didn't care. One evening to herself, just one, was worth a thousand, a million reprimands, even from Madame Giry, who probably wouldn't smack her as she had when she and Meg were young, but would certainly subject her to extreme verbal punishments.

_But I don't care. I don't care._

She looked around, for something to sit on – she didn't want to sit in the snow, and she was rather sore herself – and found herself looking into the woods.

And straight at a tombstone.

For a moment, she thought she was imagining things; but closer inspection proved that it was, indeed, a tombstone, weathered and decreased from the elements – obviously very old; so old she could no longer even read the name upon it.

_What is a tombstone doing in the middle of the woods?_

But she had a suspicion; and, walking a little way past the horse, she was easily able to make out the shapes of further tombstones between the trees – and, in the not too far distance, the shape of the church. The graveyard of the church was vast and sprawling, since once practically everyone in the nearby district had been buried there; but there had been so many graves after a certain outbreak of cholera that a second graveyard had been started up some way away, leaving the old one to age and wither, leaving behind only the church – the figurehead of God, among a sea of both nature and the dead.

She had gone round in a circle, then. Well, at least she knew where she was; she could make her way back to the house, starting from the church. She only hoped that the Pastor did not notice her pass – her doing so twice in one evening would surely arouse questions.

But she could not start back yet; her steed was still too tired, though it was licking at the roots of the tree for the moisture of the snow, and already its breath was coming more steadily. Yet she would still have to wait a while.

Somehow, she found herself advancing into the woods, to look at another tombstone – and then another, and another. She began to play the old, not quite game she had shared with her father, and with Meg once she had begun to live in Paris – she was used to graveyards, especially the Père la Chaise, in Paris, where Mamma and Papa and Meg's father were all buried, and where she and Meg had walked every Sunday, with Madame Giry, to pay their respects to the dearly departed. She felt no fear or dread as she walked between the gravestones, some so close to each other that she could reach out her arms and touch one on either side of her; so close their occupants could well have shared a double coffin; occasionally pausing to read the inscriptions on the stones, and to imagine who they had once been.

**_Madeline. _**Who had she been, and why had she been buried so close to **_Etienne_**? Were they husband and wife? Father and daughter, or mother and son? Brother and sister? Or were they not connected at all, but simply happened to be buried next to each other by chance? **_Marianne. _**Here, at least, was more information; when she had been born and when she had died; the former date less than fifty years ago, the latter not long after that. Only very young; poor little thing. Had her parents wept, or had they only continued to raise their other children, preferring to forget the lost daughter?

She looked up from the inspection of the tombstone of a man named Jacques, who, like Marianne, died about forty to fifty years ago, to see where she was. There were trees all around her now; she could see no sign of the horse. But, curiously, she was not afraid. There were no shadows between the trees to threaten, since they bore so few leaves; and the light of the stars and the moon which was already in the sky dispelled any that might have been.

And so she walked further; the light falling upon her and clothing her in silver, the only shadow her own, cast upon the snow. She, the only living thing in a veritable village of tombstones, held no fear.

No living things…

_My mother said I never should_

_Play with the fairies in the wood…_

_Or the ghosts?_

What ghosts? The only dead here were hardly able to get out of their coffins and come after her.

And so on she walked; the cryptic riddles of life that sprang on all sides at her from the markers of where graves stood, and the earth across which she should not walk, out of respect – the last vestiges of humanity, when the soul departed and the body slowly turned to dust.

_Out of dust we came, and dust we shall return to…_

She thought of all she knew who had died – how morbid her thoughts were, yet she felt no sorrow or depression – of her father. Surely by this time, if he had lived and did not lie in the mausoleum in Paris, there would by now be threads of silver in his hair; like to the moonlight which shone between the trees. Perhaps his beard would have turned silver, like Comte Philippe the Elder's hair.

_And will a' not come again?_

_And will a' not come again?_

_No, no, he is dead;_

_Go to thy death-bed;_

_He will never come again…_

And she, his daughter, walked between graves, and was not afraid; she tamed her fears, and her doubts, and disappeared into the forest…

_His beard was as white as snow,_

_All flaxen was his poll;_

_He is gone, he is gone,_

_And we cast away moan;_

_God ha' mercy on his soul…_

And as if in accordance with that thought, she stepped into a clearing, devoid of tombstones – and saw, across this clearing, a great tree, with many roots stretching out of the earth. Surely a good seat; for she was tired.

She made her way across the packed white snow, her boots crunching the white carpet that nature had laid out for her; the hems of her skirts by now soaked with snow. She settled herself down upon a certain root, which seemed almost designed to be sat upon; and pulled her stole more tightly about her, for it was even more chill than it had been earlier, as night truly began to fall.

_

* * *

She was so close…so close…_

If he could only reach out, could only stretch beyond the borders of death and into life, he would be able to touch her; run his hand over her smooth pale skin, feel her hair slide between his fingers. Her hand rested but a little from that of his body; if only, if only if only…

But he could only be aware of her; know how near she was; hear her breath in and out; and feel the coldness of the snow upon his grave.

_So near, and yet so far…_

_A lifetime away…_

* * *

She must be getting back soon, she knew that. But she must be careful when going past the church – the Pastor should not get the wrong idea.

The Pastor! She was grateful to him, indeed, for giving her the opportunity to escape for one night from her life; and also for promising to help – even though she doubted there was much he would be able to do about the marriage service. Raoul would just have to learn it.

She could not help laughing quietly, to herself. Poor Raoul! It made it all the more unfair that she should know exactly what to say – she had always had a talent for remembering words, even in other languages – it was what made her a good singer, though her voice, everyone said, made her a great singer. How embarrassing, for him to have a partner who knew everything, while he knew so little!

She looked down upon the ring, which sparkled upon her finger; the ring which he had given her two weeks ago; the ring with which they had practised only the other day.

_Poor Raoul…_

On instinct, she gently slipped the ring of her finger. She did not really know why – perhaps, with this, she tried to ensure that Raoul would know what to do? _Maybe just wilful fancy._ At any rate, she looked up at the trunk of the tree which loomed above her, and pretended that she looked up at her beloved.

"I take you," she intoned, to no one at all, "as my lawfully wedded husband."

_To get married…that is nothing special. But to _be _married…_

"To love and to cherish…"

The ring was already cold; she cupped it between her fingers, trying to warm it again; as to warm her heart.

"…in sickness and in health…"

_So that the sickness of the heart and the soul will not overcome me, I must find a way between…_

How cold it was! The night wind seemed suddenly to grip at her face and hands, like ice.

"…forsaking all others…"

_No other shall have a place in my heart…_

"…and keeping unto you and you alone, as long as I shall live."

_And may you be forever faithful to me._

"And thereto I pledge thee my troth."

The magic suddenly seemed to have departed, and she suddenly realised just how very cold she was; her hands were like ice, and had all the warmth of it. Still, she felt that she could not simply finish like that; there had to be something more.

_But why? Who asks why?_

And her gaze was drawn, almost by chance, it seemed, to a simple withered dead branch, at the foot of the tree, sticking out of the snow. It had probably fallen from the tree in the summer or autumn, and remained there, even through the winter. It looked almost like part of some sort of hand, attempting to claw its way out of the cold, dead earth, and back into the world of the living. The thought of such a thing made her skin shiver more than from the cold.

Well, at any rate, it would make a good substitute hand, for the last stage in the proceedings.

Leaning forward, her teeth beginning to chatter together with the cold, she quickly and carefully slipped the ring onto a stem of the branch, whispering as she did so, "with this ring, I thee wed." Now she could imagine no face, not even Raoul's simply a nameless, faceless groom, on which to pin all her hopes and promises and dreams of the future.

"I do."

Almost at once she drew her fingers back – she did not like to touch the thing anymore than she had to.

For a moment, she could have sworn, the circle of gold was truly ice at her fingertips – as if chilled by an air more cold that her surroundings.

_

* * *

The ring._

It swept through him, like a surge of morphine that he had once tried; it filled his whole being, every part of him that still existed, and not least his body on Earth.

The ring met what remained of his finger; yet that hardly mattered when compared with what the ring carried with it; the promises, the hopes, the dreams of the future. All encases and contained within that simple circle of gold.

It was invigorating.

It was glorious.

It was truly as if he was alive again.

And suddenly…

_Why can I not do so?_

All that had ever seemed to hold him back was swept away, as he surged out of his home and up through the earth and poured himself into his body once more – it was so quick, and yet at the same time it seemed to last an eternity of uncertainty, a balance between the worlds, detained, held back; but forcing through; through the earth and stone and remains of flesh and bone; reclaiming what had once been his; all in those simple words – "I do."

He felt the strength emanating from him, and from that which he had been given – the gift, from his bride – yes, _his _bride; for she had ledged her troth, and given him her ring; and he was hers forever.

He was aware of every natural force straining against him, as he struggled inside his body; trying desperately to force him back, back down to the Dead. But this was meant ot be; and he would not allow life to refuse him again.

Perhaps he was Hades, standing on the brink, waiting to rise up from the earth and seize upon the unsuspecting Persephone. But he was _not_ Hades; he was a man who had been starved of love too long, even before he died; and his was a determination born from ages untold of loneliness and determination; and this time he was breaking all the rules.

She was so close; and if only he stretched out his hand, he might hold her…

And he would.

He had finished with watching. It was time to act.

_My Angel of Music…I will hide no longer…_

And with that, his body was truly his again; and grabbed out with a true aim, moving his limbs for the first time since he had died. For he knew where his heart lay.

_With her…_

* * *

Her fingers were poised to take the ring off the stick again…

And then the wind suddenly blew even more chill around her, and rustled through the trees above her; and breaking off from her action she looked up, and saw the moon overhead; and spearing the luminescent robs were the branches of the trees, like many stick thin arms, trying to carve up the moon's beauty for themselves.

She shivered with the cold, as it ruffled her curls. Maybe this place truly was haunted.

_Haunted…_

Then, everything exploded around her.

Something abruptly latched onto her wrist from nowhere; and if she had thought that the wind was cold, then such chill was only an essay in the craft; this was so cold that it seemed to actually burn her skin.

_What-_

And before she even had time to look around to see what had caught her, or make a sound of any kind, it was dragging her backwards and off the root and onto her side, this choking a strangled cry out of her lungs; which was muffled as her face hit the snow.

_Oh God, what is happening?_

She tried to scream again, as she felt the continual, unforgiving tug on her wrist – something from _inside_ the bank under the tree; what could possibly be doing this? – but her cries were choked by the snow that packed itself into her mouth as she writhed, trying to free herself. It was burning; it burnt her face and her neck and her other hand as it scrabbled around, trying to find a hold on something so that she could push herself up and away from the tree and whatever _thing _had a hold on her; and her gagged screams were not so much of fear now as of pain.

_Help me; somebody, please, help me! Don't let it get me! Don't let it…_

Such a force she could never have imagined; it held her tight, and would not let her go; and she knew it would pull her after it, into the bole of the tree and the bowels of the earth, and then…

_No! _And with that she found a hold on a root with her un-trapped wrist, and anchored herself and pulled at the force, with a strength forged from deadly fear and desire to escape. And abruptly, suddenly she was flying backwards; away from the tree and the snow and the force, to land sprawling on her back with a speed that knocked the breath out of her.

_Oh, my God…_

She opened her eyes above her, to see the branches above her clashing together, in a dreadful whispering chorus, as if applauding her escape, and her breaking free from whatever had ensnared her.

But she knew…she _knew…_

For the ice cold grip was still upon her, no matter that she had gotten away from whatever dragged and pulled inside the tree.

She struggled up from her sprawl – the snow was already soaking the back of her clothes; and by some chance her gaze was brought to her wrist-

If she had had any breath to scream at this stage, then scream she certainly would have; because latched onto her wrist was nothing more nor less that an arm; a rotting, skeletal arm, with its truly bony fingers wrapped tightly about her, holding on tight, as if nothing would ever make it let go; an arm – and nothing else. Nothing else at all…

_I'm in a nightmare. This _has _to be a nightmare…_

"Get off me!" came her voice, squeaking and choked and grating, as if the snow had frozen her throat as well as her face; more like a hiss than a human voice. Desperately she writhed, shaking her arm, trying to loosen the loathsome thing's grasp on her; wheezing with fear and disgust; the snow working into her hair and melting and every part of her being soaked with whiteness as she and _it _grappled. It was too horrible; she could not bear it near her a moment longer. It was on her; she could feel its cold starkness, the bones compressing her wrist – actually feel them tightening on her!

_Get off me! Get off ! Get _off!

Her other hand came around; though she felt as if she would vomit she managed to grasp the thing's own wrist – or where its wrist would be if it had one – and, by some miracle, pulled and felt the horrible object loose its hold; a scrabble of the tips of its fingers, the dreadful feel of the grating bone upon her skin; and then she had flung it as far away from her as possible.

_Oh, God. Oh God._

She sank back, almost sobbing with the fear and horror and disgust which roiled within her…but all the while she was trying to move herself; to leap up, and get away from the terrible, grasping, crawling thing, before it came after her again; and this time went for her throat instead of her wrist. But she couldn't move.

_Run._

But her limbs would not respond; she was drained from her battle with the hand, and she could only lie, her skin chilling from the dampness of her clothes, her hair over her face, and breath.

But it wasn't over…

Her gaze was drawn, inexorably, to the bank of the tree; where a hole both in the snow and the ground beneath the whiteness indicated from whence the vile thing had come. And – she saw with a fresh thrill of horror – the ground was crumbling away at the sides, and cracks were spreading out from it.

Something was trying to force its way out.

_Run, you stupid girl! Run! Run!_

_But I cannot…_

And then surely she must have passed out, her senses must surely have deserted her; for how else could she see what came next; how else could she see how the ground parted asunder, and the dark shape suddenly break free and rise from the earth? It all happened so suddenly; one moment there was just the hole; then – as a devil's child rising from the womb of its mother - there it was; a figure; the figure of a person, fully able to step out from the earth where it stood…a man…

No, not a man. For what man could present such a figure as this? What man would wear such clothes – covered with dirt, and in some places mouldering and eaten away by whatever laced the earth? And as the moonlight shone upon this – this nightmare, it glinted upon the bare bone that could clearly be seen through the worn trouser of the right leg as it rested upon the rim of the hole through which the creature had burst; and illuminated the left shoulder that ended so abruptly with the empty sleeve of the shirt. Deep within her, she knew that she had not broken this thing's hold, but something else.

And what man could – oh, dear God? - bear a face like that? A face of white, bare bone, which glowed as the moon; and such eyes, which glowed yellow like a cat's…

Yellow eyes…a bare skull for a face…

_I am dead. I am dead._

But she was alive. She was alive. She felt her pulse beat in her temples, and her breath rush in and out of her lungs. She would almost have lost herself in them; savouring the last few moments of life, before the thing that stood before her took her life forever.

_I'm sorry, Meg…Raoul…I'm so sorry-_

The creature regarded her for a moment. Then, suddenly, it leant forward, and reached out its remained arm to her; the hand, instead of being bare bone like its companion, was clothed in an ebony coloured glove, she somehow managed to notice, in the midst of the sickness of her fear and expectation of searing pain and blackness at any second.

And then a voice – such a beautiful voice…a voice that seemed almost to come from heaven; that flowed all around her, and almost took away her fear. It seemed as if the creature was not a creature at all, but an angel; an angel from on high, clothed in what mortal flesh had been provided for it, but still retaining the voice that had made it divine. But, lost as she was in the beauty of the voice, she nevertheless was able to listen to what it said.

"I take you to be my lawfully wedded wife."

With those words, beautiful though the voice had been that had shaped them, had grasped her heart and squeezed it so tight it might burst and freeze and die within her.

"May I kiss the bride?"

And suddenly she did have enough breath to scream.

**

* * *

Et voila! Without any further ado, Mesdames et Messieurs, I present to you _my_ version of Erik, finally in the flesh…such as it is. Bet he's never made an entrance like _that_ before! One thing is for certain, this is one introduction between the two that _doesn't_ have Christine enthralled by his voice; or his physical beauty. You _think? _For me, however, nothing can match Helena Bonham-Carter's hiss of 'You may _kiss_ the bride' on the Corpse Bride film trailer. Nothing. I can only do my best – 'You may kiss the groom' doesn't sound as good, does it'?**

**I must confess that this chapter was a bit of a trial to me, since I was wondering for ages how on Earth I was going to get Christine into the woods – since she obviously needed to put the ring on Erik's finger and everything – which she has avoided since she was little, without making her look like a complete idiot for doing so in the first place. But the graves work quite well in the woods, I think. This was, I believe, the same arrangement – for the graveyard, at least – as in the Corpse Bride film; although I think the holy building involved was a synagogue, not a church – though I can't say for sure. The Père la Chaise is a massive graveyard in Paris –a true necropolis, or 'city of the dead'. Oscar Wilde, among other famous people, is buried there – incidentally, if you kiss the sphinx on his grave, you are supposed to be granted a wish. Also, tying in with the Kay universe, there are some victims of the Commune buried there as well – as well as many Jewish people, and memorials to victims of the holocaust. **

**The various rhymes included that Christine thinks are, alas, not of my own invention. The first three are from the play The Ash Girl, by Timberlake Wertenbaker – a rather more macabre version of Cinderella, in which the Seven Deadly Sins take animal form, the Ash Girl's father at one point almost rapes her, not knowing who she is, and the step-sisters, in an attempt to be able to fit the recovered shoe, cut off bits of their feet – the fairies in the wood thing is an old rhyme; and the death bed verses come from mad Ophelia's lament in Hamlet. Wel, I said I wasn't a very good poet, didn't I?**

**(Also, if you didn't like the thought of the hand, don't blame me – it's in the original Corpse Bride film, so blame Tim Burton for inspiring me to give Erik a creepy crawling hand!)**

**Thanks to Ripper de la Blackstaff for the correction for the graveyard name. By gad, that was embarrassing. Also for the slight change to the end of the chapter. I did think of it first – then I dismissed it – then I decided to do it again. Go figure.**

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Well, what are you waiting for? An invitation? Oh, I guess that's what this is. Well, review anyway.**


	13. To glance behind

**Disclaimer: I do not own POTO or Corpse Bride. Various people (too many to list) own the former, and Tim Burton owns the latter. Still, I hope. **

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MetalMyersJason: I am very impressed by the fact that you are enamoured of a zombie. Because that is, technically, what my Erik is. A zombie. Since he's dead, and risen from the grave, and all. But, if that's your kink, then good for you! You obviously have a strong stomach. **

**SperryDee: I'd post links; but I don't know how to do it on this site! Go to the offical website or Yahoo, they've both got very good trailers – although you can get just a little freaked by them. In a good way! Here is more.**

**Pertie: Well, the original film is considered strange by many. I suppose this is a tribute to it. No more strange than _some _of the phan phics floating around, though, I'd like to mention. Here is the next chapter. Enjoy!**

**musicallover: You know, I was hoping someone would say that. Thank you. Have a free guide to necromancy, complete with shovel. Sorry, just my little joke! You know, what with Erik rising from the grave and all…**

**Ripper de la Blackstaff: I see your point. It does get the attention. My God, I'm _sooo_ sorry! I just wanted to get the chapter posted, and I'd just typed that in for later spelling ,check, and I _forgot _to rectify it! The shame! I have changed it, if you'd go back and read it. I've also altered a bit of the ending. Yes, Christine's certainly not too tranquil by now. Well, would _you _be, in the situation?**

**Carkeys: Here's your update. No tic-tac for Erik yet. Well, Christine's hardly going to let a corpse stick his – or its – tongue in her mouth all at once, is she? Ewww…bad thought; _bad _thought!**

**Mominator124(keeping your official title, even though you're not signed in): That's one of my favourite lines in the whole thing. Sweet! The tree and the branch were very creepy in the trailer – trust me, if you want a really ooky rising from the dead, check out the Corpse Bride trailer on Yahoo! Nope, I'm bad at poetry; rather better at prose. Though I did once write a very good prayer for assembly once:**

**Lord, **

**Do not let me take the shorter, darker paths in life,**

**Where the shadows seek to devour me,**

**Where the forms seek to daunt me,**

**Where the people seek to hinder me,**

**Where I am always alone,**

**And where I run the risk**

**Of never reaching my home.**

**Lord,**

**Let me take the longer, brighter paths in life,**

**Where the lights seek to guide me,**

**Where the shapes seek to encourage me,**

**Where the people seek to aid me,**

**Where I am never alone,**

**And where I know**

**I will always reach my home.**

**Poetry – nah. Prose and prayers – hmm. Thanks for the confidence, Barb.**

**Willow Rose 3(and I'm using you official username as well): Thanks for the huggles! Happiness is all that – but it is also sewing, Smarties, spaghetti and sausages. Hmm. It really doesn't take much to make me happy, does it?**

**SimplyElymas: Welcome back! Yes, Erik is here – and he is here agiain! Enjoy, y'all!**

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Two Erik and Christine chapters in a row, you lucky lot! Let's just saying I'm feeling generous. And inspired. I'm able to sew again! Yay! So, here it is; fight and flight. Or maybe just flight. Ever had one of those nasty dreams where you're being chased by something you'd _rather _not get caught by? Then feel Christine's pain. ****

* * *

**

To glance behind

'…**having once looked round walks on,**

**And turns no more his head, **

**Because he knows a frightful fiend**

**Doth close behind him tread.'**

**The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.**

_She is so_ beautiful…

It hadn't occurred to him until now, when she lay on the ground before him, looking up at him with her dark eyes wide, and her hair in disarray around her, like some glorious mane, and her mouth open, and her lovely face now drained of all colour, just how beautiful she really was. It was as if fate was saving that particular treat of realization for him until she became his bride. _My bride. _He felt a great surge of warmth flow through him, improbable as it was, as he looked down upon her, even as he spoke; and reached out his remaining hand to help her up, as any gentleman would surely do, living or dead.

_A kiss…_That was all he wanted. A kiss; to show that she truly was his bride, and that he was truly her husband. And he asked, in accordance with the marriage vows.

_It is my right._

Then she had screamed – a high, keening sound, almost more like an animal than any human; he had shuddered, shocked, such a sound should not corrupt a voice like hers! - and scrambled up, and ran; ran away; ran as if the Devil himself was after her.

_Where is she going? _he thought, as he slowly straightened – his limbs were not yet used to moving to such extremities again - and watched her disappear between the trees; a swift green shade among the stark, dead, white trunks. But he already knew the answer to that. He had seen the fear in her eyes; which had disappeared for a moment when he had first spoken, to be replaced with wonder, and awe; but had swiftly returned when she had heard what he had said. It hurt him that she was afraid of him.

_Even after life, nothing changes…_

But then again, this, their first encounter, had not been the most tranquil of meetings; that he was ready to admit. After all, he had been rather forward – and the little matter that she had grappled with his disembodied arm and seen him rising out of the earth would surely not have helped the situation in the slightest.

No matter, no matter. He would simply go after her. She had not gotten very far; even now he could still hear her crashing through the undergrowth, far ahead of him.

He stretched, and heard as well as felt several _somethings_ crack into place. Then, he stepped forward – down from the mound of earth, from where he had broken out of his grave after so many years. At first his movements were brittle, and jerky, making him grind his teeth in frustration; but after a few moments he felt the state of rigor mortis begin to dispel, as he gained more full control of his body once more.

A scuffling by his feet – or rather, his left foot and the bony remains of his right one – made him look down, to see his arm creeping across the ground; clearly making after his fleeing bride. A smile spread, however slowly, across the long dead muscles of his face – now no longer quite dead - and a chuckle came from deep in his throat, as he carefully bent down, and scooped up the detached limb. It _was_ quite funny – if he had been told when he was alive that when (and if) he came back from the dead, one of his arms would have a life of its own, what would he have said? Or done, for that matter?

Slipping his arm back up his empty sleeve, he applied pressure in the right place, and felt and heard the snap as it clicked back into place in his shoulder. No pain, he noticed, with a slight, odd touch of melancholy – pain came with life, and he could not be truly alive, not ever again.

Still, he was alive in a way – and now, he would have someone to share it with. If he could only catch up with her.

His lips curled further; brushed the edge of the mask.

_Here comes the groom…_

* * *

After the first scream, she had not made a sound. She _wanted_ to scream – heaven knew she was screaming mentally loud enough to wake the dead she hadn't _already_ woken – but not a murmur had passed her lips, since the animal like lament she had made but a few moments before, except for the tormented gasps as she fled through the trees. It was as if that cry had taken away her voice altogether. Then again, screaming would only use up precious air and strength, which she very much needed just then. 

As she ran, she could feel the warm wetness running down further between her legs; and for a moment she felt the same childish shame she had bizarrely experienced in the seconds between her scream and her fleeing from the seemingly paralyzed _creature;_ that she had wet herself, like a little girl.

Run. Run. Get back to the horse. Get away. And whatever you do, _don't look back._ She tried to think of nothing else, as she hoisted her sodden skirts and leapt over roots and felled grave stones, tried to quell the screaming inside her head; but all the while every thought of that _thing _she had left behind her in the clearing, every detail of Buquet's awful story, was whirling around in her head – as if reality wasn't bad enough.

The terrible grasping, groping severed hand…

"_Always one of two ends; their necks would either be broken, or they would have been strangled…"_

That voice – that angelic, seraphic voice…

"_And they say that he held many people in thrall, as he sang and played; and cast spells over them, so that they obeyed his every word, and followed him as if they were sheep..."_

The bare whiteness of its face…

"…_the handsome side of his face is now the white side, since it is his skull, the flesh having rotted away long ago; and that which was once white with the mask is now dark with evil…"_

Don't look back. _Don't look back._

"_And if he catches you in his gaze, there is no escaping him; you are spellbound and follow him at his will; and then…"_

And then…

"…_you die. And he laughs over your body."_

_No! No! No! Please, God, no!_

She could feel tears beading at the corners of her eyes, from terror or pain she could not tell. The air whipped past her, penetrating through her damp clothes and freezing he; her side was screaming at her – her corset, although made for riding, was certainly not made for running. Her boots were sodden; her feet were freezing. She wanted to scream, and sob with fear; but first of all she wanted to get away from that – that monster, coming after her.

_Don't look back._

How far _was _the edge of the woods? How far had she walked earlier? Where was the horse? Everything seemed the same in front of her; a never ending tableau of pale, stark trunks, and grey tombstones, like the fangs of monsters sticking up out of the ground, trying to trip her up so that she could be pitched into the maws of the earth – or the arms of whatever pursued her. For she knew, she _knew, _that it was behind her; it was coming after her. It meant to get her.

_Not me. It won't get me. I won't let it._

And as if in accordance with that thought, she suddenly saw the flash of a dappled flank in the moonlight, not too far up ahead; the swivel of the animal's head, as it evidently heard her coming, and looked around to see her. She could have burst into tears with thankfulness, as she put on an extra spurt for the last few hundred paces.

_I'm safe._

But suddenly the horse stiffened; then it opened its mouth and screamed – not whinnied, but screamed; she could hear the terror in its voice; it was being driven mad by fear. Still screaming, it kicked at the tree which held it, and threshed its head. The next moment the reins had come loose from the trunk; and the animal was already tearing off across the countryside, without looking back.

"_NO!" _The scream was torn from her throat, as she tried, in vain, to grope for those distant reins; tried, as if by shouting, to bring the animal back, though she knew it was pointless. _"Come back! Come back! You can't leave me here!"_

She reached the edge of the trees much too late, and could only watch as the animal raced away across the plain. "You _can't_…" she whimpered, as she watched her only mode of escape disappear from view.

_Don't stop moving. Don't let it catch you._

She cast around wildly, looking for some other way out.

_The church!_

The sanctity of a holy church – the Pastor - surely that would protect her against the abomination that walked the living earth? At any rate, it was better than trying to flee over the plains, after a steed that she would never catch. She set off along the edge of the wood at the best run she could manage; the whole business had taken less than half a minute.

At every moment, she was sick with dread; sick with expectancy that something would leap out of the woods onto her; expected to be knocked into the snow; expected to feel sharp – things, scrabbling at her arms, face, neck. She didn't dare look behind her; or to her left; she kept her eyes on her possible salvation.

_Please, God, please, help me…_

Tombstones began to obstruct her path, indicating that she had entered the main graveyard around the church; and then there was the wall of the church, looming up in front of her; she swerved but slid in the snow, and banged into the wall. At once she was up again – _hurry, hurry! _– and scrambling around to the front entrance.

_Open up! Open up!_

She rattled the handles of the doors, but her fingers were too clumsy to do any more than fumble; she bunched them into fists and banged on the wood; she tried to scream, "Sanctuary!" but the words would not come; her throat would not work, and most of her strength had gone into running, so she could barely raise a noise of any sort.

_It _was near, she knew. _It _was coming. _It _would find her.

_Please, please, _please-

She strained and squealed; her voice grated out, _"Sanctuary! _Please, give me sanctuary!" But would Defarge hear it? She doubted it. She was trapped. There was nowhere to run.

_I am lost. I am dead, _she thought, as she huddled closer to the wood, as if trying to force her way into the church that way; her fingers still clutched around the handle of the door.

_God help me._

But where was it? Surely it had been only a little way behind in its pursuit of her? Or had she only been imagining things after all, since nothing had turned up? No; for why else would the horse have fled, for surely she would not have struck it with such terror that it would react in such a way?

She was tempted. Tempted to see-

_No. Don't look back._

But she couldn't help it, she couldn't, she couldn't…

Slowly, deftly, she drew away from the doors, and peered around the corner of the church; looking back into the woods; expecting any moment for something to leapt out at her.

_I am going to die._

But there was nothing. As far as she could see into the woods, between the trees, there was nothing; nothing. No black shape; no whiteness; no yellow eyes. The moonlight shone harmlessly, among a lot of harmless trees. Nothing. There was nothing. Nothing.

She almost hugged herself with relief. It was gone. She was safe! It hadn't caught her! She was safe. _Safe._

_But…_

Her eyes were drawn away from the trees; to the wall parallel to her, which stretched down to the fringe of the forest; the wall of the church, which was cast in shadow, with no light shining upon it to dispel the darkness. The darkness that was deeper than it should be, even at night…

And she knew that it hadn't gone at all. That it was still waiting.

Waiting.

A pair of yellow eyes opened in the blackness; looked directly at her.

And she turned without a sound, and ran; ran as if her mad dash for escape before had been merely a first attempt at speed; ran as if Death itself stood there in the shadows, staring sedately at her.

And, in a way, it did.

Where could she run to? Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide! She stumbled, and almost fell over in the snow…she was so cold, so very cold...but she forced herself on, on.

_No, no, no._

She slipped again; only this time the surface that she slipped on, underneath the snow, felt like stone instead of earth. She raised her muzzy eyes, to see that she had cleared the graveyard, and was on the foot of the bridge, which spanned the brook; the one she had ridden over earlier; back when her life was normal and she wasn't about to die.

_The old legend…the dead cannot cross running water…_

Did an iced up river count?

She tried to get to her feet again, but found she could not; the cold was flooding through her; her sodden garments were clinging to her and freezing her again. The best she could do was crawl. She couldn't feel her hands; the front of her dress was soaked; her stole was gone.

_Move. Keep moving._

But she couldn't. She leant her head against the stone, breathing deeply. A brief rest, and then she would run; she would, she could, she'd-

There was a crunch in the snow behind her.

Another one. And another; slowly coming nearer, and nearer.

She couldn't move; she could only lean heavily against the stone wall; her eyes fixed upon the snow, her breath coming in rasping gasps; barely propped up, and sliding down all the while. She was dead, she knew that now. She had been dead all along. It had just taken a little longer for the Grim Reaper to catch up with her.

The footsteps stopped beside her. She tensed, squeezing her eyes shut; expecting any moment to feel bony hands, or a hempen rope, around her neck; expecting any moment to see true blackness.

But nothing came. Nothing happened.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Then, as if compelled by some gentle, irresistible force, she gradually turned her head around, and upwards, to stare at the being that looked down at her.

What she saw took what little breath she had been able to regain away again.

He was – or, technically, had been – a tall, well built man; well over six foot. But the slightly decayed dress clothes, which had clearly (and in a well cut way) covered strong, powerful, sturdy, limbs when both the clothes and the owner had been more fresh, now hung rather more limply around the left arm – out of which, she shuddered to note, that terrible hand, now, it seemed, fully reattached, protruded, complete with a mouldering shirt cuff – and the right leg, slightly torn at the bottom and the knee, and clearly showing the kneecap and, since the 'foot' was missing the boot that evidently matched its counterpart, every bone in the aforesaid foot. A black cloak, lined with what had once been white silk, was slung about the figure's shoulders; but what remained of the silk had long turned yellow.

_Like Hel, _she thought, remembering her father's childhood stories – though she hardly even dared to do so, as her gaze travelled inexorably up. _Half human, half rotting._

And then she saw its face.

_Oh. _Her mouth went slack, as her eyes feasted upon the sight that lay before – or above – them. _Oh, my._

His face – surely such a face could not have come out of the ground – it seemed not to come from the earth itself! Such high, elegant cheekbones; such an angled jaw; such sculpted lips…

A mask…

With a whimper, she came back to herself, and cringed away; almost trying, with her shoulder blades, to dig into the wall. For she remembered just _who_ she was admiring; and what was supposed to lie beneath that mask, for all the beauty of the opposing side.

_The living corpse…_

"Please," she heard herself saying; her voice now merely a tiny mewl, like that of a half-drowned, battered kitten, that had been rescued from the water only to find its rescuer was a furrier. "Please…leave me alone." She closed her eyes, and silently raged at herself for being so stupid. "I meant no harm to you; nor disrespect. Please…don't make it hurt."

_Make it quick._

"Why would I _hurt_ you?" That voice again; that strange, wonderful voice; that voice which seemed to transcend all earthly limits, to take her and pull her up to soar above the clouds; which took away the cold and the pain she felt, and filled her with ecstasy. "I would never harm you; _never."_

His voice was filled with such sincerity that it enticed her to open her eyes again; to look up once more at the being that stood before her – no, crouched before her, in one swift, fluid motion. His beautiful face came much nearer to her; it was too near, too sudden, too much. No man had come so close to her, except Raoul; and he…she could not help giving a strangled moan, that grated her throat.

The next moment, her mouth was closed, gently but firmly, by his hand. "Please," he said softly, "you must not strain such an instrument as you voice. It is cruel."

But she was not paying attention to his voice; more to the fact that there was a _skeleton _hand covering her mouth.

And the _smell…_

It was too much for her, after everything else that had happened in the last while; the fear, the horror, the fatigue – all those were still with her, but this settled it. The blackness claimed her.

It was, she thought, just before it did, almost a relief.

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She gave a little sigh, and collapsed forward into his arms, unconscious. In a moment he had scooped her up, and leant on one knee; his precious burden cradled in his arms and partially across his legs. Such a thing he had never even dreamed of before; that any woman would lie in his embrace. 

But now he had cheated Death; anything was possible.

She lay nestled to his chest, as he held her close to him; so close. He could count every eyelash on her closed eyelids; see her breath as clouds in the chill air as she exhaled; she was warm in his embrace, despite her damp clothing, and he could feel her heartbeat shuddered through her – and him.

_Perhaps there is a God, after all._

But if she stayed in the cold, she would not last long. He no longer felt cold, in a way; but already he could see her lips turning blue, even in her sleep, and she shivered even as he held her to him.

What then to do? He would not relinquish her – never.

He leant forward, and whispered to her – perhaps she did hear, even in her dreams – "I shall take you home, my bride."

He paused, relishing the words already forming in his mind. "My _Christine._"

Supporting her with one arm, he unfastened the clasp of his cloak with the other; swiftly he wrapped it around her, swaddling the young woman as one might do a baby; insulating her from the cold. Then, standing up jerkily, holding his burden tight in both arms, he looked down once more, at his now warm, sleeping peaceful bride, lying relaxed in his embrace. He felt his mind sing as it had not done for ages untold.

_I shall carry you over the threshold. _

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And so ends the second Erik and Christine chapter in a row. I must say that I am rather proud of this one, in trying to catch Christine's fear and terror. I'm not sure if it's completely awe-inspiring; but so much of terror cannot be explained. If you're a little bit disgusted about Christine's – bladder problem, then let me be the first to say that that's probably what _I'd _do if some dead thing fought its way out of the ground, swore to marry me and asked to kiss me. Wouldn't you? Don't answer that if you think it's immoral. **

**The legend about the dead not being able to cross running water is an old legend; I'm not sure exactly where it originates from, but Garth Nix uses the theory a lot in his Abhorsen books. Check them out – they are extremely good. Plus most of the important people who save other people are women. So feminists should have a field day.**

**Hel, whom I mentioned earlier, was a character in Norse mythology; a daughter of Loki, the trickster god. She was a _very _singular character; from the waist up she resembled a normal, beautiful woman, but from the waist downwards – let's just say there were a _lot _more bones to be seen than flesh; rotting flesh and _extremely _corpse like. However, compared to her brothers in Loki's 'little brood', she got off quite easily; one of her brothers, Fenrir, was a giant wolf; and the other, Jormungard, was an even gianter sea serpent. Though Fenrir remained with the gods – until they got sick of him and tied him up with a ribbon, which is another story altogether – Jormungard was thrown into the sea by Odin, the king of the gods; and Hel was banished to the underworld – also, conveniently, called Hel – to be queen of all those who _didn't _get to go to Valhalla, the Viking heaven: a.k.a anyone who didn't die in battle – which says a lot about Norse society at the time. She was said to 'feast on hunger and thrive on sickness' – nice. Since Christien is Swedish, and Sweden is right alongside Norway, I theorized that her dad might know some of these old legends – so that Christine would be able to realise just what Erik reminded her of!**

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Read and review, please! I like reviews! They make me want to sew some more! **


	14. And still I wait

**Disclaimer: I do not own POTO, or Corpse Bride. Or 'An easy guide to Necromancy'; just in case you lot were getting any ideas.**

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Moonjava: Glad you do.**

**MetalMyersJason: I see your point – even though I have _no_ idea who Jason Vorhees is. But I'll take your word for it. You are certainly dedicated – then again, I suppose my Erik is no worse than Leroux's Erik. After all, he was skeleton thin, and resembled a corpse; at least I've made my one good looking, to a certain extent. I expect it's all principle, isn't it? Yes, he does – or at least, attempt to claim her. Whether she will let herself be claimed, considering she's already engaged, remains to be seen.**

**musicallover: Necromancy is cool – just not in practice. You'll find that in such practices, you almost always have to give up a life for the one you bring back. Or something like that. Anyway, I was hoping to imply some of the terror Christine was feeling – I know this sounds a bit corny, but this is based on an actual dream I had. It wasn't Erik chasing me; it was just some guy, and I knew – really _knew_ – that I didn't want him to catch me; and he kept catching up with me, and I was so scared and desperate. I suppose Christine's thoughts are almost what I thought in my dream. When I think of Erik, Jack Skellington doesn't come to mind ,so much as this rather gruesome picture of Hel – whom I mentioned in the last chapter – which I once saw in a picture book; with her skirt in rags about her skeleton legs and her pointing at something and looking rather grim. Normality will intercede between the time our two spend together, I promise.**

**Ripper de la Blackstaff: Amen to that, in your case. Like I said before, I wanted to imply terror; not 'Oh I'm so afraid and I'm going to run away as fast as I can – but not so fast that he won't catch me' terror, but real, actual fear for your life. And, I am sure, any normal person would do the same as our beloved Christine did. It's what makes her more real! The kiss? Hmm. We'll have to see! I don't watch Stargate – but your example is certainly interesting, and inspiring. Thanks for the correction about rigor mortis – darn, I'm so ashamed; both my parents are doctors and I _still_ didn't know that! I think you can take it with a pinch of salt – I suppose I was trying to imply that since his body's been in the ground for so long – and is, we assume, quite chilled, since it's winter and all – the bones and remaining skin and stuff are a bit stiff, to say the least. Thanks again for the information! **

**Kat097: Welcome back! That's okay, just breathe – and re-hinge your jaw while you're at it. Enjoy this and what is to come!**

**SimplyElymas: Thanks, I wanted Christine to be really scared. Well, we all love Erik; but wouldn't _you _be just a _leetle _alarmed at the sight of a rotting – yes, rotting – corpse, who's fought his way out of the grave. And yes, erik is calm – after all, he's achieved two of his desires, in a sense. Don't worry, Nadir will still be around! Who said Erik was going to stay _above _ground. And yes, Erik is still very much 'dead'- just not as dead as some people would like him to be, I'm sure.**

**Morianerulz: Whew – no offence, but it's much less confusing when you write like that – though your muses are still lovely! In some fictions Carlotta is a cow; but in this I want people to see that she has another side – and why she got to be such a cow in the first place. Well, wouldn't you be if you had to put up with having relatives like her? Perhaps in this she will be redeemed? I like watching 'Prima Donna' on the DVD; the bit where Firmin drinks out of her shoe always cracks me up. Extreme morbidity isn't really my thing – says the girl who's cast Erik as a risen-again-corpse whose skeleton arm comes off at awkward moments. But, it could be worse – in the film, the Corpse Bride has a maggot, conveniently called Maggot, who lives in her…wait for it. Her _eyeball. _Apparently he pops out from time to time to give her advice; as one person said 'like the most repulsive version of Jiminy Cricket you could imagine'. Think I'll pass on that, if it's all right with you. **

**Willow Rose 3: Well, there will be more Erik to come. Glad you are so happy with me – after being annoyed. That could, I suppose, unnerve anyone. But then again, you haven't really been deprived. Erik's had…let me see…_three_ chapters to himself, on the whole, if you count the prologue. Be content, luv!**

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Count yourselves lucky that you had two E and C chapters in a row. Unfortunately for all you Erik nuts, we're back to normality in this chapter – or as normal as the situation can be. While Christine's been waking up corpses and fleeing through woods and fainting from the smell of Erik's hand – in case you think she's a WUSS for fainting at this point, when she managed to deal with him coming up out of the ground and all that, let me put this suggestion to you.**

**Get some meat. Steak, sausages; anything will do, so long as it's raw.**

**Leave the meat out in the sun for a few days – outside the house, otherwise your parents or flatmates or whatever would probably kill you for stinking up the apartment – until there are nice little bits growing on it and stuff.**

**When said bits are growing on it and stuff, take a nice deep sniff of your 'experiment'. (Optional, unless you're feeling strong stomached and/or slightly suicidal.)**

**Now; imagine _that _over your nose, people.**

**Is it any wonder Christine fainted in the book? Or here?**

**So where was I, when I got sidetracked on the subject of the death smell of Erik's hands? Oh, yes; while all this has been going on, poor old Meg has been holding the fort, so to speak,back at the mansion – and, like a good friend should be, is getting very worried about the whereabouts of her friend indeed. This chapter is fairly short, but, I hope, profound, and is dedicated to all those who've ever watched from a window for someone who may never come home; including all the families of people who have suffered and died in the bombings in London on Thursday 6th of July. My heart goes out to all those who were affected.**

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**My Boy Jack**

'**Have you news of my boy Jack?'**

_**Not this tide.**_

'**When d'you think that he'll come back?'**

_**Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.**_

'**Has anyone else had word of him?'**

_**Not this tide.**_

_**For what is sunk will hardly swim,**_

_**Not with this wind blowing and this tide.**_

'**Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?'**

_**None this tide,**_

_**Nor any tide,**_

_**Except he did not shame his kind –**_

_**Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.**_

_**Then hold your head up all the more,**_

_**This tide,**_

_**And every tide;**_

_**Because he was the son you bore,**_

_**And given to that wind blowing and that tide!**_

**Rudyard Kipling (whose son John was killed in the Battle of Loos on September 27th 1915.)**_

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_

**And still I wait**

_Christine…_

_Christine; where _are _you?_

Meg clutched her shawl more tightly around her – the cold air penetrated the linen of her nightgown and raised goose flesh on her skin, forcing her to find a remedy – and looked out of the window again.

_Oh Christine, where are you?_

Every moment she hoped, wished, prayed that she would see the shape of a rider come up the path towards the mansion; see her friend return; know that everything was all right.

But it wasn't all right. At the moment, Meg felt as if it couldn't be all right ever again.

_It _will _be all right,_ one part of her mind kept trying to convince her. _She'll be back any minute now. Any minute. She has to. She has to be back._

But she wasn't. It was nearly one o'clock at night now; she had left in the early afternoon. Surely she would have been back by now? Surely she would have said all she wanted to say to the Pastor? Why, then, hadn't she returned?

Meg leant her head against the window frame, as her tired eyes scanned the dark scene outside. She could feel the uncomfortable, anxiety-ridden heat spreading through her; her nightgown was sticking to her back and under her arms now, even with the cold. She could feel her heart beating within her; and with every beat she wished she could turn back time, so that she could go back to that afternoon and persuade Christine not to go; or at least to let her go with her when she travelled to visit the pastor.

But she could not turn back time; and instead every beat of her heart counted out every moment that Christine was still missing.

_Where is_ _she?_

Annoyance, when she had had to make up the excuse for her not being there at dinner – that Mademoiselle Daaé was so tired that she had to abstain from dinner, and was sleeping in her room - was long gone; in the face of almost panic, when she had had to dissuade Raoul from trying to come in to wish a exhausted Christine goodnight; claiming that Christine was sleeping, and that it was best not to disturb her; she needed all the sleep she could get for the great ball the following night; all this with a ridiculous but, she hoped, sincere smile upon her face.

And now here she was; crouched up on the window seat in Christine's room – which adjoined onto her own; not daring to light a candle in case someone – anyone – noticed; hunched up, her knees up to her chin and encompassed by her arms; gazing steadfastly out of the window that gave the best view of the road; and losing hope with every fresh minute that passed and Christine did not return.

_Where _is _she?_

"Christine, please; please come back," she whispered, so low that she hardly heard herself. "Please come back, Christine. Don't be…"

She didn't dare say what she was thinking; she didn't want to tempt fate. But all the same she couldn't stop herself from thinking of things…of Christine riding along, and some – _thing_, watching her go past, with eyes narrowed, and slide off after her…of Christine lying stiff in the snow, her lips blue, her eyes looking sightlessly upwards-

_Stop it, _she admonished herself swiftly. Christine is fine. She's, she's probably stayed talking so long that the Pastor wouldn't let her go back tonight, and she'll come back tomorrow – perhaps when he comes for the ball. Yes, she'll come back tomorrow. She'll come back.

She _has_ to.

At any rate, there was no point in looking any further tonight; it was far too late. Unwillingly she dragged herself away from the window, and slipped into Christine's bed; not willing to go back into her own room for some reason. She lay, curled beneath the covers, in the big, lonely bed; hunched up, miserable in her anxiety, and her doubt.

_Should I have spoken?_

After the dinner, in the hours before bed time, should she have spoken up; said that Christine had actually gone out; and was not back yet? Should she have said something to Mamma, or even Carlotta, when they listened to her play the piano; said that the reason Christine was not there to sing along with her playing was that she had gone to visit the pastor, and that she had expected her back long ago? Should she – how she shuddered at the lost opportunity – should she have told Raoul, when he had come desiring to wish his fiancée goodnight, and instead received a cold reprieve? Should she have told him that Christine was not sleeping but gone; gone to ride without him, or her?

But no. How could she have told him that? How could she have said such a thing? And how could she have betrayed Christine's trust?

Christine! Abruptly, a small wave of anger rose up in her, against the other girl; growing larger. It was all _her_ fault she was here, in this terrible state of uncertainty. Why did she have to go now; today of all days, the day before the masquerade ball? She cast a dark glance at the outfit which had been laid out for Christine in preparation for tomorrow; a rose pink dress, made from red satin with a thin white material sewn over it to give the impression of pink; and a gorgeous mask, trimmed with tiny rosebuds. Normally she would have sighed with delight over it; but now the eyehole of the mask, set on the vanity table and leant against the mirror, seemed to be almost winking stupidly at her; as if the person who was meant to don it tomorrow was already wearing it, and being stupid on purpose, to deliberately annoy her.

Why did she have to be so _difficult?_ She assumed that everything would be fine for her; that what she left behind could take care of itself, while she enjoyed herself.

_What _is_ the matter with her? _If _she _were getting married to a Vicomte, she would be overjoyed, not moping around the place. Why couldn't Christine just be _happy_, for once? She had always had everything handed to her, even after – her father's death; but she wasn't content, even then; she _always_ wanted more. Hunched into a ball, her nervousness a sickness inside her, for a moment Meg positively _hated _her friend; for her selfishness, her disregard for what _she_ might be going through while she swanned off by herself; the fact that she felt she could simply escape out from her duties when it suited her. She wanted to marry into the de Chagny family? She would have to get used to the way things worked, not try to avoid them at every possible moment.

It had all really come to a head since that rehearsal a few days ago, though. And that book. Meg shuddered. She hadn't read mush of it; but already to her there seemed to be something odd about those words…as if they were seeking, by themselves, to take you over; to make you make up tunes to them in your head, all the time. Christine certainly had been acting oddly since she had finished it; humming all the time, which she had never used to do, even when being trained to sing by a teacher Mamma had hired; even occasionally singing under her breath. Something had certainly happened, in the time she had taken to read that thing.

_Christine, what have you done? _That was all she could think. She did not know what her friend might have done, in the state of mind and potential nervousness she was in. She could not guess.

Meg clenched her teeth together, and shut her eyes, willing sleep to come and the morning to come and Christine to come, so that she could shout at her for being so irresponsible and causing her so much stress and worry. It was better and easier to think about than other things which threatened to consume her mind.

Still, underlying everything was the sick, sick fear that clutched her stomach and made her want to vomit; made her want to pass out if only to escape that terrible anxiety, that worry which had plagued her for most of the evening, and even now when she tried to sleep would not loosen its hold on her mind.

_If she doesn't come back, _she thought, as she willed sleep to come, as a release from the tension that gripped her frame like some sort of fever, _if she doesn't come back…of course she will, but if she _doesn't…

_How on earth will I tell Raoul?_

_How on earth _can _I tell Raoul?_

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I know that from this you might get the impression that Meg is jealous of Christine, and maybe she is, just a little – like the way that I'm jealous of the fact that my sister can whistle well and I can't – but she isn't hugely jealous of Christine; she's just angry with her because she's causing her so much worry, and being rude about her, if only inside her head – you know the way when you think bad thoughts about a person because they keep you waiting, or ruin something for you? Well, it's a bit like that for Meg; and it's a lot worse for her, since she's not sure where Christine is. Naturally she's also a more than a little frightened, and is trying to keep herself calm in the easiest possible way – by slagging off her mate. Tough love; the way of the world. I've done it plenty of times; even with my parents – though once the above situation was in play with my dad as the catalyst of my alternate mind-lashings and feelings of sickness. But he _did _come home; so that was all right.****

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Read and review, please. There will be more E and C on the way!**


	15. Phantom of the darkness

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. Or Corpse Bride. ButI do own my Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. And I've finished it! So good! Not that there's any of this in this chapter.**

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Moonjava: Glad you do.**

**musicallover: I see you understand. Yes, Meg's annoyed at Christine; but she's only using that annoyance to mask her fear of what could have happened to her friend. The dream was thrilling – but also very scary. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. I love Nightmare before Christmas as well. I don't know why, but my sister and I would always have this tradition that, the day we broke for the Christmas holidays, we would watch it as soon as we got home from school. We won't be able to do that anymore, unfortunately – because Lucie's going off to university in the autumn! Waaaaa! Sorry, was that diluted or deluded? Or both? Happy reading!**

**Ripper de la Blackstaff: And hi to you too! Meg isn't exactly envious of Christine – just more of the fact that Christine's always been able to have everything, while she often gets left behind or looked over, compared to the Daaé heiress. Nice suggestion – if totally improbable, namely because Christine isn't in love with Erik at this point (does the wetting her knickers suggest _nothing_ to you?) and she's fainted; so I wouldn't really say she's run off with him – and I don't really know if zombies can have babies. I'd say Meg's thinking more along the lines of 'Remember your fiancée? Well, she went off riding all by herself last night, and she hasn't come back, and by now I'm really worried that she might have frozen to death or been raped and murdered or something like that – but no worries, okay?' So, here is more to quell your little necrophilia mind. Enjoy!**

**Kat097: Nope, not really. I don't seem to give any of my characters a break, so I'm not really singling Meg out for punishment. At least, I don't think so. Aaaa! Not the _puppy-dog look! _I get enough of that from my sister! Here, here is more! Be happy! Just don't _look _at me like that!**

**MetalMyersJason: I suppose it says a _lot_ about my writing prowess that I manage to create a zombie Erik that everyone _still _wants to sleep with. Well, except Lydiby. Whatever makes you happy. You're all impressed by the smell of death, that's fine by me. No offence, I'm just writing this for laughs. Well…maybe I'll just grant your wish?**

**Morianerulz(no other muses? Oh well.): I agree, Prima Donna is fun! Like I said, drinking out of the shoe for luck. Or something. If I've lived with my sister, I can live through anything. I could list the reasons why living with her is hard…but _that _list would be far too long. I was actually slightly thinking of Susan Kay – even though I've never read it, I know his mother was called Madeline or something like that; and she had a friend called Marianne, or something. But, since you're such a nice reviewer, it now _will _be based off Moriane as well! Tell her while she's on her vacation, won't you? Hope your muses come back – it's always useful to have muses!**

**Mominator: That's _exactly _what I wanted you to think! _Damn_, I'm good! Can you feel it? Or maybe you're clairvoyant. Anyway, you got it exactly! Here is the next chapter! Enjoy, and then some!**

**SimplyElymas: Well, that's very comforting, except she doesn't know that yet, does she? She thinks Christine may be lost or kidnapped or dead – so she's just a little clueless, not telling anybody, isn't she? Then again, if Christine _does _come back, she doesn't want to have gotten her into trouble, see? And I'm not helping either. Okay, let's just drop it.**

**Musique de la nuit: Cool username! I'm being really mean towards all my characters, aren't I? Oh well; enjoy! (I use that phrase _way _too much…)**

**Willow Rose: Poor Meg indeed. And hello to you, Kathryn. I was wondering when you'd show up. I mean, after I read The Further Adventures of… I was wondering, is this _my_ reviewer? Guess it is. I mean you are, of course. Good luck on resurrecting her. You can have my exclusive copy of 'Necromancy for beginners'. And the shovel. The shovel's always important. Blessed be to you too.**

**Lydiby: I'm glad you agree with me that it wouldn't be all that much fun to be chased through the woods by a rotting corpse – even if that corpse did have a pretty face. I would normally have her screaming with terror as well, but my Christine is sensible. She wants to get away; she doesn't waste her energy on screaming when she could use it to run faster. Though maybe in that situation I could have had her hurling obscenities at the horse, pretty little heiress though she is. But I didn't. And now Erik has her. Sigh. What will happen to our beloved, terrified little heroine? Wait and see…and thanks for the review.**

**Anonymous: Thanks…whoever you are? Some crossovers are just confusing, but I liked the thought of this one, so I did it. Here is more for you!**

**

* * *

So, I've decided not to be cruel to you lot. You want E/C, so I shall give you E/C. Here's, in essence, a jolly little boat trip – only Christine's not enjoying herself at all…**

* * *

"**Then wipe the sweat from brow and cheek."**

_**It runneth forth afresh, my lord.**_

"**Uphold me, for the flesh is weak."**

_**You've finished with the Flesh, my lord!**_

**From Heriot's Ford, by Rudyard Kipling**

**Phantom of the darkness **

* * *

She didn't want to open her eyes. She felt so odd, and yet so at peace; so quiet and calm. It was as if she was at the bottom of a deep, dark pond; supported by warm water, and yet not wet; cut off from all sound, except the dull, steady beating of her own heart, that echoed through her and around her and within her.

She liked it here. No worries, no thoughts, no cares. Nothing but peace. She would have been happy to spend all existence here.

_Goodbye, world._

But, against her will, something was happening to her; something was drawing her up, out of the pond; up towards the surface, and a light-

The odd thing was that it wasn't bright. Not bright at all. Perhaps even darker than her surroundings.

_Why is it a light then?_

She didn't know. But she could not help floating up towards it.

_Oh, I am waking. I can't help it…_

For some reason, she didn't want to wake. Why? She could not remember. She just didn't want to. Something in the waking world had made her pass out; made her come here. That hadn't been so bad; but she remembered that whatever it had been that had caused her to faint, it hadn't been good at all. She had no desire to face it again.

But she could not help it. She was waking, she knew it...

She reached the un-light, her head broke the surface-

And her eyes opened.

Or at least, she thought her eyes opened. Truth to tell, it was so dark now that she could not tell the difference between her dreaming and her waking.

Or maybe she could. It was still dark, but the air around her was now much colder. Before she had been as warm as toast; but now a chill wind was blowing around her; tracing across her face; making gooseflesh rise upon her skin, even under her clothing.

And she was no longer floating – something was supporting her; bearing her up; and her cheek was pressed against some strange surface; it felt like stitching, and as she breathed in her nose was flooded with the smell of earth, of decay-

_Oh, _God _no. No…_

Memories came flooding back to her. Memories she didn't want, but which she could not help recalling – that terrible hand, the shape breaking out of the earth; fleeing through the forest – the half rotted figure, standing over her – the hand upon her mouth, her lips, a hand that had smelt of death…that must have been when she had fainted.

_Oh, let me faint again. Let me faint, and let me _never_ wake up. Let this be a dream; a horrible dream. Let me wake up, or let me sleep again and never wake up; but do not let this be true!_

But was it true? Was this all just another of her dreamings?

No. This was no dream; she could tell that from the – thing, which held her; encompassed her unresisting shoulders, and supported her limp legs under her knees; pressing her tight against – whatever she was being pressed against; probably a waistcoat. Someone - some_thing_ was carrying her along, to some_where_.

_I'm being carried by a corpse. A corpse. A corpse with part of its arms and legs missing is carrying me down – a flight of steps, it would seem. I am in the arms of a walking body. I'm being carried by a corpse. The living corpse._

She was going to be sick. She _knew_ it. She was going to be sick; she could feel her stomach churning at the very thought of what was going on around her; any moment now it would be coming up out of her. Or at least, it would be if she had eaten anything in the last few hours. As it was, all she could do was feel the illness within her; clawing at her insides; curiously detached from what was happening.

_I can't even be sick. I can't do _anything. _Oh, God, why can't I even _try _to get away, instead of lying here as if I were some damsel in distress?_

But her limbs were still weighed down by the lethargy of her unconsciousness, and she doubted that she would be doing anything at all soon. Why didn't she feel more afraid? By all rights she _would_ be sick with fear by now – _should _be. She had never even been too keen on seeing dead mice that the cat in the kitchen back in Paris had caught, when she and Meg had gone down to Cook's domain to beg some biscuits or treats; and now she was being _held _by a – she hated to even think of it – something that was not only dead, but missing much of its flesh, and also probably rotting, judging by the smell which had made her faint.

That smell…it was all around her now; permeating the air she breathed in. She almost felt herself gagging, despite her still evident lethargy; and tried hard to breathe only through her mouth. Her breaths came harsh, and shallow; almost more panting than inhaling and exhaling. The air was too thick; the smell too much, even after her switch to mouth breathing, it was too much-

Abruptly, the motion of her captor's walking stopped. And suddenly she was being set down upon – she did not know if it was the ground, or one of his knees, or anything; the whole world was spinning around her again. Her shoulders were still supported by something…but what? Oh, Lord, she was so tired; so weak! And the darkness clouded in and all around her; and she could see nothing; the air was so close, and she could hardly breathe, and-

Something was near her face. Something was tracing across her forehead.Something was lifting a lock of hair away from her skin – _something cold, and grating…_

"_No!"_

Instinctively she tried to thrust whatever it was – though she had a fair idea – away, with both hands; her strength suddenly coming back to her. She hit something rather more solid; the weight shifted under her and she took advantage of it to attempt to jerk away; to try to escape; anything, rather than lie back in that terrible embrace. And it must have worked, in part, because she fell hard on her front on what she fervently hoped was the ground, her chin banging on the hard surface; even before she could attempt to get her breath back she was scrambling along, in a strange half-scuttle, half crawl; her knees landing painfully against the ground, hardly cushioned by her skirts; her unseen hair trailing across her face; her fingers desperately searching out the ground in front of her, since she could not see in the blackness. But the blackness held no horror for her at all now; it was what lay behind her that she feared. She didn't care where she was going, as long as it was far, _far _away from that thing…

Something that felt as if it were made of iron wrapped itself around her stomach from behind, and another caught her outstretched arm; she was lifted off her feet and upside down or the right way up, she didn't know-

"_Nooo." _The wailing shriek was torn out of her throat as the grip pulled her back against that solid object again; her back against it, the iron grip around her waist and pinning her arms to her sides. She could feel hot tears of – of what she didn't know, streaming down her cheeks; heard her breath coming in panting sobs, as she wriggled and kicked, trying to break free, though she had no hope left in her.

_Daddy! _Daddy!_ Help me! Somebody, anybody!_

"Be still," came the voice – that strange, angelic voice, more like singing than speaking; not enraged at all, but as if the owner of the voice was merely – surprised, that she was struggling so much, that she was putting up such a fuss.

Somehow, she had stopped moving, locked into place by the sound of the voice; her fear for a moment quite disappeared. But the next instant she was fully aware of her terror again.

_I'm being held by a corpse…the living corpse…_

"Be still," whatever was holding her repeated. This time the voice came very close to her ear; and with a thrill of fresh horror she felt no breath upon her skin from whence the voice came.

_Well, I wouldn't, would I? Oh, help._

"Please," she managed to whisper, hardly daring to breathe. "Please, don't hurt me. Please let me go. Please."

"You will not be harmed. I swear it," came the voice, like a beautiful whisper from beyond the grave.

This didn't make her feel any better, though she knew it should have, considering the circumstances.

"Oh, please," she blurted out, trying hard to control her tears – what a silly, crying little baby she would look, if there were any light to see by! "Please, _please _let me go!"

This time there was no answer; simply a deep sigh. Then, without any warning, her legs gave way underneath her.

_Oh, no. Not now. Not again…_

She slumped in the tight grasp, but at once she was swept up again into that embrace; and once again her captor set off with her, down wherever they were going, be it passageway or underground tunnel or-

Or was it dark? What if she had gone blind? Oh God, what if she had somehow gone blind? The thought overwhelmed her; and combined with her already present terror served to make her lose the last of her brief spurt of strength and nerve; she slumped back into the clutch around her shoulders, and her head lolled back against – against – something she didn't like to think of; and in doing so must have swivelled so that she happened to be looking in the direction she was being taken; and up ahead she could see strange things; like huge red furnaces, which opened and shut like slowly laughing mouths; and…shapes that scampered between?

And when her head swivelled again, as the one who held her readjusted their hold, she found herself looking up to where the face of her captor would be…and how could she tell, but that two pinpoints of gold flashed where his eyes would be…

_Yellow eyes…yellow as a cat's…_

She must have blacked out or something, because the next thing she was aware of was that she was being supported in a different way; the strange, bony grip was still about her shoulders, but now something was underneath her – something large, and strong, and alive…

_Not, not alive. It could not be…_

The light had changed; it was no longer red, but a strange sort of blue, and growing lighter all the while. Gradually she was able to muzzily see around her; see what was happening; see the ceiling of the seeming tunnel above her, as it passed by; her head lolling back against whatever was supporting her shoulders, almost as Raoul had laid his head in her lap once or twice. She was also able to see, faintly, the shape upon which she was now half lying – a horse, a black stallion. Or was it black? Now that she looked at it again, it seemed white. Or grey? The creature's skin seemed to shift and dance under her eyes. She felt dizzy, and closed them again; grateful somewhere within her that she was still able to do so.

Why wasn't she dead? Why hadn't the creature killed her? For what purpose was she being kept alive, unharmed? Why…

"_May I kiss the bride?"_

More memories were coming back…of her flight, and what had caused it…of what she had said…

_What have I done? What have I _done?

Abruptly, the creature carrying her – she didn't like to think of it as a horse, somehow – stopped; she slipped back so that her head lolled back against whatever supported her neck, and found herself gazing up into the face of her captor; the white, masked side of the face obscuring all else in her vision, which looked down upon her with golden eyes. She could not bear it; she thought she would faint.

And perhaps she did, since the next thing she was aware of was the now absence of the grip around her, and instead the gentle rocking motion that cradled her. She was on her back, she knew; lying upon something wonderfully soft, instead of being cradled in that dread embrace – but the change of support did not comfort her at all.

She opened her eyes, to see the ceiling above her; and thought for a moment that they had left the underground, and gone back outside; outside, where the stars shone in the velvety black night. But no, she was still underground, she could tell; though how she could she did not know. She felt that if she only reached up, she would be able to touch those stars; draw them to her, hold them close. But they looked so cold…surely they would freeze her fingers solid if she so much as tried to touch them.

_Tiny gems of ice…so cold…_

She heard the familiar sound of water – not running, just moving – nearby; so close to her; yet she was dry, and safe – relatively speaking. So, she was in a boat. She managed to raise herself a little on her elbows, carefully, though the actions made her feel faint, to look around her. The sides of the boat rose gently up on either side of her, almost to her mind like – she swallowed to think of it – a coffin. From what she could see there was nothing around the boat but water – impossibly blue water, like the sea was always painted in story books or paintings, but never was in real life. The boat seemed to be cutting through a thin layer of mist which hung just above the surface of the – river? Lake? Ocean? The floating wisps of the mist, sliced by the prow, drifted up into the air, above her-

One wisp, floating directly above her, almost seemed to hold a face, with wide, staring, sightless eyes, and a screaming mouth-

She shut her eyes, and shook her head; but this only served to make her feel more nauseous. She opened them again; and resolutely looked away from the water – only to look up at the one who propelled the craft.

The black being stood in the stern of the boat, holding the pole with which he punted the craft through the water. Both his hands were on the pole, the gloved one and – she looked away, to avoid looking at the skeleton hand; and instead was caught in the heat of the eyes in what she was able to see of that terrible, beautiful face; one peering through the bone white mask, the other glittering freely. She felt her very mind and soul shake at that gaze – a gaze of pure power, and at the same time complete surrender; a gaze that both adored and possessed her – a gaze which would surely shrivel the mind and soul of any other, but simply focused upon her. Why? That she could guess.

_Oh, God help me. _She shut her eyes, so as not to have to look into that terrible, wonderful gaze anymore; though she felt that the images of those eyes would never leave her. But the eyes were still looking at her, this she knew; and they continued to look for a long while, until they at last turned away – however unwillingly – for their owner to focus on some other reason.

Much against her will - _let me go to sleep, and never wake up _– she forced herself to open her eyes again. This time, however, she did not dare meet the dark one's gaze again. Instead, with a great effort, she swivelled where she lay; one hand grasping the edge of the boat, the other pushing herself up on the cushions; turning and supporting herself so that she was no longer lying on her back, but looking out across the prow, to attempt to see where she was being taken.

_Where am I going?_

Through her faded sight, which was growing more faded by the minute – why did she feel so tired, even in this situation? – she could see that there was not much ahead; just that strange eerie fog, floating on the surface of the water, and darkness up ahead. It was as if a light lingered about the very boat itself, which only penetrated a few metres ahead of the craft, and dispelled the mist about the craft, so that she could see the water. She looked down at the water by her side; though it was blue it was also clear, and she could see the sides of the boat go down below her. She could even see the pole, as its owner dipped it into the water, to push the boat along. _But along what? _As far as she could see, the water went straight on down, with no visible bottom – an endless sea of forever lasting blue.

_Where _am_ I?_

Maybe if she jumped off the boat, into the water, she could get away? If she dived down deep enough, and swam, he might not be able to catch up with her, even if he did go in after her himself. But her velvet clothes would be too heavy; they would drag her down. And in any case, she couldn't swim anyway. _Oh, _why_ did I never learn how to swim?_

And, if she concentrated on the little eddies and ripples that came off the boat as it passed through the water, really hard, she fancied that she could see faces – faces like the one in the mist, with wide eyes, screaming mouths, looking up at her, staring, glaring-

She gulped, and shut her eyes, and rested her forehead on the edge of the boat. Even if she could swim, and was wearing lighter clothes, she still would not wish to dive into that too blue water. For all she knew, there were worse things in there than there was in the boat with her.

_I can't _bear_ it! _She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, so tight that black and white patterns seemed to trace and spark across the insides of her eyelids; clutching the railing on the side of the boat.

_I must be brave, _she thought desperately. _I must be strong. But I don't want to _be_ brave, or strong! I just want to go home! To get away from here; from this terrible place! From him!_

_I'm so afraid…_

Yet in a strange way, she wasn't, at the same time. Most of her fear seemed to have drained out of her when she had collapsed the second time. Now she felt a little as she did when she had been out cold; calm, and peaceful; her cares and worries still there, but not having sway over her as they might have done in other circumstances. As she unwillingly breathed in the mists that swirled around the boat, she felt warmer, and sleepier. Her vision was clouding…

No! Something was happening to her; something because of the mist! Forcing herself upwards with both hands, she scrambled awkwardly backwards from the prow, from the mist which was now pouring over the front of the boat – but now it was no longer mist; the pale, almost transparent faces she had seen earlier, in the eddies and ripples around the boat, and in the far off mist, were closer now, much closer; she could see them so clearly-

A wide eyed, silently screaming woman, with blood running down from her temples-

A man's face, fixed in an expression of pure terror, his eyes seeming to look beyond her-

A little girl, surely no older than five, her eyes squeezed tightly shut; a trickle of blood running down from her nose-

They were coming nearer, closer; pale hands were reaching out to grab at her – she felt so cold, all of a sudden; as if she were surrounded by chilling mists and the only warm place was her heart – and that was fast losing its heat; the air she could not help breathing was cold and icy, and seemed to be freezing her insides…

"_Don't let them get me."_

She was hardly aware that she had spoken out loud until she heard a hissing intake of breath from above; tearing her eyes away from the terrible mists she saw, with a fresh stab of terror at her heart, that she had unwittingly backed right up against her captor; whose eyes glittered strangely as he seemed to notice the encroaching, threatening mists for the first time; and whose mouth was set in a grim, harsh line, for a moment robbed of all its unnatural beauty, and terrible in anger.

At once she shied away from him, though she didn't know where to go – either the corpse or the mists or the water - but he paid no attention to her, as he took his skeletal hand off the pole, and swept his arm – _or what's left of it, _she couldn't help thinking – in a sweeping arc; the bones of the fingers at first splaying, then gesturing. At first she had no idea what the gesture was meant to do; but as she followed the being's gaze she saw, to her amazement, that he actually seemed to be _commanding _the mist – repelling it, forcing it away from the craft, somehow. Even as she watched, her heart hammering, her breath coming in choking gasps, the mists began to retreat from the boat, from her; the faces fading – but the expressions on some of the faces as they disappeared were not something she was going to be able to forget for a very long time – if she ever had a chance to forget.

But she had no time to think of that; for it seemed that her captor's gesture had done something other than repel the terrible mists; there was light up ahead now – and not the eerie glow of the water around the boat, or the pale gleam of the stars overhead, but a different kind of light – warmer in colour, though not warm to her at all, and growing brighter. As she strained her eyes, she could see the faint shapes of…

…_candlesticks, rising out of the water? What the-_

And suddenly the light was all around them, blazing into her; so bright she had to shut her eyes and bury her face into the cushions upon which she lay again, to try to get rid of the scorching blaze which threatened to burn out her eyes even with them closed – and then the light stopped as abruptly as it had started; before she had a chance to get a grip on herself and her surroundings the terrible grip was around her once more; pulling her off the cushions and into the embrace again, though she had half-heartedly tried to grasp the rail on the edge of the boat in an attempt to prevent it, but had lost her hold in an instant.

And then there was light…again…

* * *

He had half feared she would kick and struggle again, as she had when the journey had first begun. It had pained him that he had had to restrain her, but there was no other way. He would not let her go now.

_I will never let her go…_

The horse was, basically, a bit of a surprise, when he had come across it, but not much – he had, after all, desired something to carry her so that she would not struggle – she feared his grasp, yet he knew she could not walk all the way down to – wherever they were going.

The boat, too, had not been expected; but swiftly made use of – for he knew what the river had been, and now that he was weighed down by a more solid form he could not simply skirt over it – why had he never noticed it before? Why did he not assume that there was more to the lake

Now they were in his home – or what one might call his home; and she was once more in his arms – and she did not struggle, though she was awake! He felt her heart beat against his; rapidly, out of fear – but she was no longer attempting to escape! Soon, soon she would no longer be afraid…

Now she would see. And she would understand…

* * *

And all at once the light was gone again, leaving her blinking in the aftermath; everything was a hazy blur around her. And she was aware again of the position she was in; of the firm grasp around her yet again – compared to this, the boat was almost a relief. She closed her eyes again, trying to quell the unconscious tears streaming from them, more from the brightness that had threatened to blind her than any emotion. She felt drained, as if all the rebellion had been burned out of her by the light.

But as the one who held her started forward, the rebellion suddenly came back.

_Run…_

She did not act at once, but stayed limp in the clutching embrace, until she felt the arms around her relax a little – only a little! – but enough for her to attempt what she planned. With a sudden, violent wriggle she struck out against the grip; broke it enough for her to slip and fall to the floor, hard; her eyes opening; the world was a blur around her as she scrambled up from her sprawl; her eyes centred on the boat, left on a seemingly sandy shore a little way away, hardly aware of her surroundings.

_Run._

But even before she could jump to her feet and attempt to reach the craft, the grip was around her again, pinning her thrashing arms to her sides; and somehow she could feel that the being was now – not exactly angry, but annoyed; irritated at her repeated, silly attempts at escape.

_I'm useless…_

With seemingly no effort she was plucked off her feet once more, and swept through the air; and in the next instant she was set down, none too gently, on something both soft and hard – _an armchair? _she thought dazedly – and she felt that her wrists were still held, and, as she focused, she saw he who was holding them…

He was so close…too close…yet how could he be? He – it had loomed over her like a tree, a tower, before; how could it now be so close to her?

Then she realised with a rush; she _was _sitting, though on a type of chaise lounge rather than a chair; and he was on his knees before her, her hands held tightly in his…in his…

She looked down in panic; but to her intense surprise his hands were no longer the dreadful claws that she had so come to dread…at least, the left one wasn't. Somehow, something had changed, had happened. She _knew _the hand was skeletal – she had seen it, _felt_ it on her – and yet the hand she saw now was simply a normal hand, graceful yet large, enveloping her hand like a great paw. No visible bone, just simple flesh and skin…or was it? It was the oddest sensation; she felt as if she were looking at it with both eyes, but seeing a different image in each eye; melding together to create a riddle of whether the hand was truly there or not at all.

Gaining courage from some unknown source, she forced herself to look beyond the hands that now gently held hers – or rather her wrists – and along the arms. Everything was different. What had happened? This was not the terrible, half corpse that had so terrified her, that had caused her to flee through the woods in fear – why, it was simply a man! A man on his knees before her, clad all in black, in clothes that were not stained or rotted but whole and perfect and seemingly new, as if he had only just put them on; seemingly long out of date but nevertheless stylish and well fitted on the strong, muscled form – or at least on the form that she could see, for his cloak was still around him, obscuring much of his outfit from view. She could see a waistcoat, the embroidery of which she must have felt earlier; whole, undamaged trousers, through which she could see no bone – or at least, as far as she could see – perhaps tight fitting around powerful thighs; as her eyes travelled upwards again she saw the solidity, the strength of his form, his arms under the sleeves of the coat he seemed to be wearing under the cloak…

But all the same, despite this rather surprising and more pleasing aspect, a tiny part of her mind was whispering to her that this was wrong. True there was a well built, tall man kneeling at her feet, like a courtly lover of sorts – in a situation not unlike some she and Meg had envisioned when they were younger, though she had never dreamed that such a thing would come to pass – but the whining part of her mind was telling her that it was false, not true.

_It's a corpse. A corpse is kneeling in front of you. Can you not see the state he's in? You can see his bones; the places where pieces have fallen off! He's not a man, he's a corpse! A corpse!_

And, if she focused, as she had with his hand, she could see that this was indeed true. Through one eye she saw the new image, that of the seemingly ordinary though extraordinary man, in his perfect, albeit slightly scuffed with kneeling, clothes; with the other, the being that had so terrified her; the being with the skeleton arm and leg, and – if she really concentrated – the stale smell of death; the two crossed over each other, in a way that shifted under her gaze and made her dizzy. Which was the real one, and which the illusion? Or were they both illusions?

_What is happening to me?_

But, somehow, she did not feel afraid any longer; as if the being's obvious act of humility – that he did not stand over her as before, but now knelt – had taken away her fear; that he had humbled himself before her, in obvious adoration, meant that for some reason she could not feel her fear any longer – or at least, not for the moment.

Gaining further courage from this, she raised her gaze further; up his chest, his neck – at which there bloomed a black cravat, spilling out of a white or yellow shirt, depending on the moment – to his face.

_His face…_

That was the one thing which did not change; if the earth had attacked the corpse's body, at least it had had the decency to leave it the angel's face. She could not help giving a sigh, treacherous though that simple exhalation was towards Raoul – Raoul? She had almost forgotten him, in all the excitement and terror - as she looked in wonder at the face that was turned up to meet hers; the face of an angel; of a god.

As if in a dream, she let her eyes range over his features; taking in the chiselled jaw, the elegant arch of the cheekbones; the seraphic curve of the lips, which brushed the edge of the mask – hurriedly she looked away from that, she wasn't ready for her dread again – the lustrous ebony blackness of his hair, slightly ruffled or impeccably smoothed back she was not sure, in length almost down to his shoulders-

His eyes; two orbs of tawny gold, flecked with brown; almost yellow; and gazing at her with an intensity which made her draw breath hurriedly, for she felt as if she had been struck across the face by the force of that gaze. She had never really believed, despite all the books that she and Meg had read together, that you could read emotions in a simple glance; but this seemed to defy all that in a moment. In that gaze she had seen so much; anger that roiled within a soul, sorrow a hundredfold, and, melded together, so closely they could hardly be distinguished as separate, hope and adoration; so strong she felt it might overcome her altogether – hope and adoration…for _her._

_For me…_

The eyes seemed to fairly blaze with passion, in that strange, angelic, demonic face glowing like fire…like stars…

And the mask shone like white bone, like the moon…

_What am I doing here?_

She opened her mouth; she was not sure what she meant to say, but what came out was a hushed whisper. "What…what _are_ you?"

At first, the being kneeling before her said nothing. Then came his beautiful, unnatural voice; sweet and low, but at the same time filled with raw, full desire for she knew not what – though she could easily guess.

"I am Erik."

**Here for the first time (perhaps) is where I am treading on (fairly) uncertain ground. To tell the truth, I have no idea exactly how the Corpse Bride takes Victor down to the underworld in the film; though in one of the trailers is a shot of the wind blowing up around them on a bridge as the camera circles them rapidly…your guess is as good as mine. Anyway, since this is a Phantom of the Opera crossover (well, duh), I though I might as well stick in the boat sequence and everything – only, you might notice, this scene is more based on Leroux than anything else, mainly because I can't really see Christine singing a romantic, powerful and searing duet with Erik when she's being abducted down to the underworld. Can you? Although, I must admit, Erik waving his hand about in the air to repel the mist and light the candles_did _come from the stageshow, sinceI was rather impressed with the way he caused all those candelabras to come up with simply a gesture.Also, the idea of Christine being boated – or rather punted - down to the Phantom's lair has always, to me, been rather interesting; taking into mind the Greek legend of Charon, the ferryman, who ferried souls across the River Styx, to the Land of the Dead – even though, theoretically, there were about nine rivers of death, according to certain mythology – guess I'd better get on with that Latin AS level, hadn't I? Anyway; can _you _see the connection? Only Erik pilots his beloved across – or perhaps along – the river; since our beloved Phantom has always been known for doing his own thing. I find there's nothing creepier than simple things – like a certain shade of egg-blue, which happens to be the colour of the river cum lake. That colour gives me the shivers whenever I see it.**

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Please read and review! I like reviews! I'm going to write lots more, now thatI don't have any work experience left!**


	16. Death and the Maiden

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. Not even Susan Kay's Phantom – which I've finally read! Yay! Thanks, Hriviel, by the way!**

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musicallover: Thanks…what was I talking about again? Remind me. I love Leroux's book as much as the stage show – it's one of my favourites. Although I am, in a sense, an E/C shipper, in there I want it to go both ways – even though Raoul can be a bit silly in it, bless his silly little mustache. True, Victor would probably have a heart attack or something – if you _can _have a heart attack down there? You want E/C? Then you shall have it; damn the expenses!**

**Moonjava: Glad you do.**

**Voldivoice: E/C goodness you shall have! Well, if you think about it, my Erik's no worse than Leroux's in some ways – he was practically a living corpse, and at least I've had the decency to make my Erik decent looking, even if he does have most of an arm and a leg missing half the time. I think you're only a necrophiliac if you like to have sex with dead bodies – which is a bit hard when you're a girl; but in _this _Erik's case – I think we'll pass, okay? Thanks for the luck! When I come back from Ireland, I shall bring you a four leaf clover in return – if I can find one in all the rain that will inevitably fall as soon as we get over there.**

**MetalMyersJason: Well, I see that you are able to look beyond ugliness, to the beauty that resides within. Good for you, you little necro. Can she stay? Hmm; well, we'll have to see, won't we? One thing is for certain, she's not going to forget Raoul just like that.**

**Morianerulz: Of _course_ you may have my Christine! I shall be honoured to provide you with such a gift – if, of course, I believed that women were objects and stuff. Nah, just messing, you can still have her. I've never read that Wheel of Time Series – I'll have to give it a look! I don't have a muse at the moment, but that doesn't mean I'll get writer's block! If you want a copy of Susan Kay, check out Hrivel's _A Perfect Cage _if you haven't already done so – she's made a offer to email copies of her version to all who ask, and I think the offer is still standing – but be quick! Postcards are good; but I always seem to get back before the ones I send! HP and the Half-blood prince was good – my sister still hasn't finished it, and I've promised not to tell her what happens. I went to Italy twice; and I'm going again in August, to Venice – again! Maybe I'll see your muses there, if they haven't already come back!**

**Mominator: Yeah; she's not sure what's holding her, so sticking with 'it' for now. I always love it when the men are carrying the women around like that – _so _romantic! Although not in Christine's case, I should imagine. You know, I thought of the horse of a different colour as well, although this isn't intentionally meant to be that – this isn't a normal situation, so it's not a normal horse. Or maybe it's not even a horse? Anyway; yes, I wasn't taking any chances with the colouring. My theory about Erik's changing form is; in my version of the Land of the Dead, the 'occupants' – such as they are – keep the shape they had when they died, e.g. Erik died in his dress clothes and with a gash in his side, so that's the form he now wears in Death (this is where the movie goes off on a different stem – quite a lot of people 'down there' have turned into skeletons and such, without minding too much). However, since Erik is now in possession of his mortal body once more, and he's back in his 'home', his spirit tries to influence the way he looks – with mixed results, meaning that he flashes back and forth between the forms; and doubtless gives poor old Christine a right headache. I got the idea of the souls in the river from Disney's Hercules; but thought it was more creepy to have the water a clear blue, and the faces only visible if you concentrated, and all that. More E/C is yours!**

**Willow Rose: Well, whatever it is, I warrant he won't be too pleased. I wasn't worried – the Willow Rose always comes back. Like a weed, only prettier, and less of a…weed. Um, yeah. Anyway, love to Kate, Kathryn and Kat. Blessed be from the divine seamstress to you.**

**Ripper de la Blackstaff: I like Andrew's version; but Leroux's seemed more appropriate for the situation – not to mention slightly more in tie with 'going down to the underworld', so to speak – not to mention abduction. No objections? Yay! I mean, really? I'm not even going to _begin_ to talk about the 'urophilia'. You are right, of course – I just don't trust myself to talk on the subject. No offence meant. (I can think of what you're thinking as well. Let's just think to each other, rather than write it down and grossing everyone out, okay?) Enjoy!**

**Lydiby: Yeah, I know. My mum was all sad when I told her. Hasn't read the books, but still, she knows (generally) what happens. Made her promise not to tell Lucie. I think that the changing form thing would freak me out _just_ a little as well. Or just make me go cross eyed. The leaning-in-to-kiss and then suddenly all-change-to-corpse in the facial department wouldn't be very nice; but what if…what _if_…you were kissing him, all right, everything was fine, tongue was in his mouth (not that I've ever tried that…_eww_…) you pull away at last; his face stays where it is – but you take his tongue _with_ you? _In your mouth?_ Do I earn a biscuit for that? I love morbid tea-parties! One thinks, when considering said being in distress, almost unconsciously, of Meg in Hercules… 'Aren't you a damsel in distress?' 'I'm a damsel, I'm in distress…I can handle this. Have a nice day!' I've always wanted someone to say that to me; so thank you. And have a crumpet!**

**SimplyElymas: The world's about to end? Wow. Suddenly I realise how futile, puny and pathetic our meagre existences really are. But then I snuggle down with my favourite movies, and forget. It's like going into the army – only less dangerous to a degree. Indeed. He is, indeed, Erik. Like I said before, whatever Nadir says, I doubt he will be very pleased. Oh, wow! Did you see it on the web, or in the cinema? In the cinema it's much cooler, because the dark's all around you, and it's more freaky! And yes, it is amazing – _I just can't wait!_**

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More E/C goodness for you all. You didn't think I'd leave you with just that snippet, did you? I'm not mean. So, she knows his name, he knows her name – they're off to a flying start!****

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Gloster: Your beauty was the cause of that effect;**

**Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep**

**To undertake the death of all the world **

**So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.**

**Lady Anne: If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,**

**These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.**

**Shakespeare's Richard the Third, Act One, Scene Two.**

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Death and the Maiden

"_What _are_ you?"_

_What am I?_

_I am a ghost…a Phantom…a genius with no other way to express myself…a murdered man…and your slave._

He gazed at her beloved face; her mouth still open from her hesitant, whispered words, her breath coming in short gasps from between her pale lips; not unlike when their eyes had met for the first time, though perhaps she had conquered her fear more successfully this time. He had hardly believed that there could ever be bliss like this before, as he knelt at her feet – her little feet; so small; he had, for a moment, seen them, when first he had stopped to remove his cape from around her, when she had whimpered at its heat in her sleep. So small, like a doll's – her hands were still red from where they had been frozen by the snow, but quickly they were turning back to cream; and he held them in his own. They were so soft – and yet they felt so strong; felt so powerful; the lattice work of nerves and tendons hidden just beneath the pale skin! He could feel her pulse beating in her wrist against his fingers – oh, the joy of feeling such a beat! The joy of it! Surely better than any music he could ever write or compose; the true blood music of life.

Her life.

_I have no breath, no beating heart to swear by – yet I am yours forever._

_But above all that – what am I?_

_Erik._

And so the words came from his mouth.

"I am Erik."

At first, she said nothing; closing her mouth so suddenly that her teeth clicked together, like a box being snapped shut. Her eyes, if it were at all possible, grew even wider; the swell of her chocolate brown irises seeming to contain the whole world, as she looked down at him; a child with a dead man seated at her feet. Then, her lips parted again; but now her voice held no fear; like a breath of pure wonder came his name back at him, falling like a blessing upon his ears, his mind, starved too long of such a dream.

"_Erik."_

He felt his hands tighten involuntarily on her wrists. Oh, if only he had the courage he would take her into his arms again; hold her close to him, and feel not her pulse but her actual heartbeat again. Only the small whimper – whether from pain or sudden shock at his closeness, he was not sure which – prevented him from doing so; brought him back to himself. Swiftly he let go of her, and drew back, though still he knelt before her; like an adoring prince before a beautiful princess.

_She is certainly a princess; but I am no prince…_

She rubbed her wrists – he tired to reassure himself that her protest had come from pain, as exhibited by the redness of the skin, though he hated indeed to have hurt her – almost absentmindedly; but all the while her eyes were fixed upon his face, with an intensity which would have made his heart, had it been beating, almost stop. There was fear in that gaze, of course; he would have been surprised if there hadn't been; but there was also wonder, dismay – a whole melting pot of emotion, of intrigue, of passions…

_Let me lose myself in your eyes, forever…_

She clearly shrunk under his own gaze, mouthing wordlessly; the colour coming back to her lips and cheeks despite her evident shock and timidity.

"You fear me," he said simply, not sadly. People had been afraid of him throughout his life, and he was used to fear. He might have been upset now that she feared him like all the rest; but it was all right, he would have so much time to teach her otherwise…

Gulping back what might have been tears, she nodded. Just once, but enough to show her timid assent.

"Why do you fear me?" The words came flowing from his lips; gentle; inviting; teasing an answer from her own rapidly flushed lips – a gentleman's request, a lover's request, shaped by a demon's lips, to entreat an angel. He held her gaze in his, and he credited her all the more – her resolve, her backbone – when she did not look away in defeat, even though he was perfectly aware of what she was probably seeing.

He hated this – hated himself – but he wanted her to answer. Wanted her to say what she felt, so that he would help her conquer her fear, and so she would, could, love him; could look beyond his new form and see himself.

And he was prepared for her answer. "You're the living corpse."

He nodded calmly. In life he probably would have struck out with deadly precision and accuracy at whatever cretin had dared to throw that insult at him, like a clod of earth at a dog; but now it was no more than the truth.

"I see Buquet keeps my old name alive still." With that he got up effortlessly, and drew back from her. He heard her give an almost inaudible, minute sigh of relief, even as the next second she asked, hesitantly.

"You…you knew…_know,_ Buquet?"

"Not personally. But a Phantom must have knowledge of his empire, and all those who dwell within the said empire." He felt the muscles of his face spread, in another smile. "Even their names, Christine."

"And…how do you know _my_ name?" came her sweet, musical voice, gaining strength with courage.

"I have known it for ages untold; knew it since the moment you opened up your heart to me, and let me into your mind, and shaped my words with your voice." For this was only the truth. The way that he had been brought back to life.

She was silent, her lovely face frowning; and then it was as if a light had suddenly blossomed in her features, her eyes – not of joy, but of revelation. "It was _you_. _You _wrote that book?"

He inclined his head, and felt a great surge of pleasure rush through him at the fresh wonder that rushed in turn across her lovely features. "I am glad indeed that you enjoyed my verses."

"They were so _beautiful!_" she burst out; now longer a fearful, cowed young woman, out of her element in this new world, but filled with enthusiasm for the beauty which he had created. At last, he had a purpose; his work had a purpose! No longer would he create aimlessly; in Christine he had found a wife, a muse, an idol…an angel.

"No more beautiful than the mouth that shaped them; that found music to sing them to."

Once again the roses appeared on her cheeks; but now it was more the flush of a woman to whom a compliment from a dashing suitor had been paid. For the moment at least there was no fear, no horror in her face, her eyes, as she looked at him. For the moment, she had forgotten what he was, if only for that moment.

In time, he would help her to forget altogether…

But then the roses disappeared – or were perhaps simply replaced by white ones. She gulped again – almost a sob – and bent over her hands, which clasped so hard in her hands that those two were in turn going white, as she squeezed the blood out of them.

"I know what you are saying," she said flatly. "And you must not say such things to me."

Such boldness! But he had expected nothing else from her. At least she was speaking to him now as a proper being, instead of a dark, threatening figure to be feared and hated.

"Why?" he asked softly, drawing closer again, closer to her. That she was aware of his closeness was evident, for her breathing increased rapidly, as she hastily brought her head up again; her eyes suddenly filled with fear again.

"I know what you want! I'm not so much of a damsel in distress that I can't remember anything! You want me to _marry_ you! You want me to be your – your _bride!_"

He had to at least be pleased that though there was evident terror accompanying that last word, at least there was no disgust – at least, not yet.

"Would that be so wrong?"

She stared up at him as if he were mad as well as dead. Perhaps he was. _I've certainly been accused of it in the past._

"You're dead," she said, after a few deep breaths – here for the first time he felt a twinge of annoyance; she sounded as if she was explaining something to a mere child. As if he didn't know that! – "you're dead, and I'm alive. The living cannot marry the dead; can you not see that?"

"Then whoever made up that rule is mistaken."

Her brown eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

For an answer, he raised his hand which, at the moment, seemed to be melded between skeleton and flesh; showed her the ring, which encircled his finger – that circle of gold, which bound him to her, like fate, forever and a day.

"_And thereto I pledge thee my troth," _he said, casually; and watched her blanch to hear her own voice coming out of his mouth. _"With this ring, I thee wed. _I would say that is fairly binding, wouldn't you, mademoiselle?"

She stared at the ring, her mouth open. Then, she abruptly began to shiver; with a gasp as if in pain she brought her hands to her cheeks, her eyes now staring into nothing. She moaned, and then moaned again; she rocked back and forth on her seat, in a paroxysm of seeming grief.

"Oh, no…no," she muttered, sounding strangled.

He was back on his knees before her without realising it; his arms were around her despite that she flinched at his touch. His annoyance was long gone, to be replaced with concern; with fear, even. For what had suddenly caused this change in her?

_What is it, my angel?_

How ignorant _was_ he? Of course he knew what it was – the thought of marriage to _him._

He felt her body shudder with unwept sobs in his arms; her hair trailed across his face as she unconsciously buried her face in his shoulder; but then she jerked away, away from his shoulder and his arms and his embrace, away from him.

"No…please!" she whispered, tears now leaking between her eyes. "Please, do not do this to me! I cannot bear it; I cannot!"

Obediently, he moved away from her, to a respectful distance; he did not blame her for her horror. Any woman would have most likely have been horrified to be wedded to him in life; it was only natural that she should be even more horrified at his state in death.

_But she _will _see, she _must_…_

What was she saying now, in a voice choked with tears?

"Oh…oh, how will he _ever _forgive me? How _can_ he?"

He froze. His thoughts froze. The world froze. Everything froze.

**_He?_**

"_He?"_ His voice might have cut ice, steel; it was so cold, so sharp. She looked up involuntarily from her hands, terror now in her eyes, in her open mouth, in her short, anguished breaths.

"Whom do you speak of?" He expected to be obeyed; and she obviously recognised that, since she did not hesitate, though she faltered.

"My…my fiancée. The man to whom I am engaged. The…the ring I put on your finger was to be his at my - our, wedding."

Coldness was flooding through him, through his long dead veins, into his still heart, though whether it was from fury or something else he did not know. He felt himself smile again, though there was no mirth in him; and heard himself say, "Well, you may have to disappoint him, my dear. A woman is not allowed to have two husbands; such a thing is called bigamy in the church, I believe."

She gave a hoarse moan, and fell limply back against the cushioned back of the chaise lounge; but she was still refusing to cry; he could see the tears grouped at the corners of her eyes, but she would not let them fall.

"Who is he?" he asked, unable to prevent himself from tormenting her further; trying to make light of his horror concerning the situation. "Might I know the name of my…I would call him my rival, but he isn't really, is he? Nonetheless; his name?"

She looked up at him, as if hardly able to see him through the veil of unshed tears that doubtless clouded her eyes. "What?"

"His name."

She looked away from him, as if wishing to see him no longer; filling him with yet more coldness towards this, this _man, _who already had her love.

"Raoul. Raoul de Chagny."

And if he was ice cold before, now he was boiling magma.

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She seriously thought, for an instant, that he might actually _kill_ her. Certainly when she looked back at him, limp with horror and despair, after saying Raoul's name, she could not help the cry that had spilled, uncontrollably, from her mouth; could not help screaming like a little girl, at the look on his face, in his eyes. If he had been angry before – and he had been angry, no doubt, _very_ angry; the way he had set his mouth, the way he had unconsciously clenched his hands when he spoke of Raoul in that way – then now he was virtually _insane _with fury; his teeth bared, his face shot of all colour; his eyes, and what else she could suddenly see in the full scope of his rage, oh _God_-

She had never considered herself particularly brave; but she was no coward either. Yet it was all she could not to do not to follow that scream up with a mad dash for the boat, the river; anything rather than that terrible, harrowing, _demonic_ face; those yellow eyes which burnt with an unholy fire! Or maybe it was simply fear that made her remain where she was; unable to move for terror.

_What have I done? What have I done? Oh Raoul, help me! Forgive me!_

And then, just as suddenly as the burning rage had come, it was gone; the mad fire died in his eyes, the rabid look disappeared from his face, which had settled back at once into normality. If he were alive he might have taken one or two deep breaths before speaking; as it was he merely sighed, then spoke again, quietly, melodiously; but with an evident trace of anguish, melancholy, in his voice.

"I have frightened you. I am sorry."

She didn't know what to say. What _could _she say? Words could never do justice to all that rushed through her mind, as she half crouched on the chaise lounge, looking up at him with terror, dismay; enough fear to last her a lifetime; ten lifetimes? She wanted to run and hide, to escape, to do anything but remain here, in the presence of this corpse, who called itself – _himself _– her _husband._

He stretched out a hand towards her, as he had done the first time she had seen him; unlike then she did not shrink back – she had nowhere else to go now, nowhere to hide.

His gaze was filled with sorrow immeasurable; full of countless unwept tears, as he looked almost pleadingly at her.

"Please. Do not fear me."

How it was she did not know, but her hand was suddenly in his; and she was on her feet and being led – wherever she was being led; but before she could look around at her surroundings – which she had paid no attention to, with _him _in her immediate vicinity – there was his voice; and then his voice raised in song –

And once again merciful, blissful darkness claimed her, as fear and exhilaration and weariness once more demanded their inevitable toll of the shutting down of her senses.

But even as she sank into that delicious, oblivious embrace, she remembered the face that had, for a few scant seconds, gone with the voice, and the words that the voice had spoken; and wondered that she was able to sleep at all; wondered if she would ever be able to sleep again.

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He had controlled his emotions until Christine was safely asleep – he cursed himself for frightening her so; truly he deserved such knives carving at his mind and soul for such an act; though there had been a smile upon her face as he had sung her to sleep (though he privately felt that it was more relief at escape from the waking world on her part) - before he lent vent to his fury; his rage; his screams of impotent madness.

De Chagny! _De Chagny! That_ name in his mouth again; like poison; pure _poison!_ The bitterest of biles; the vilest of tastes! At the very thought of it, he felt sick to his stomach, his real one now as well as his metaphorical one.

Candles burst – or exploded – into flame as he passed them, mirrors cracked; the very waters of the lake seemed to boil, heated and fuelled by his rage.

_De Chagny!_

But Christine might be woken. He could not wake her now; after he had laid her in his bed – or rather a bed, since he had never slept in it – with a smile curving her lips; with her hair tangled about her face in a glorious mane, her cheeks flushed in slumber – laid her at peace. No, not at peace, at – oh, he didn't know _what _to think anymore!

No, she must not be woken. With difficulty, he managed to control his fury; gradually the candle flames died down, the waters settled, the mirrors repaired themselves. As the master gained control of himself once more, so hiss abode, his creation, his masterpiece calmed down with him, until it was no longer a seeming inferno but beautiful, glorious, once more.

**_De Chagny!_**

After so long, it had come back to haunt him. But he would not let the rage overtake him like that. Not again.

_Not like this. _

It was ironic, he supposed. Almost fated, if he believed in fate. _I make my own destiny, _he had always said. _And look at where it brought me._

He walked back to where she lay; beautiful in slumber, every breath a gift to him, every sigh nothing but an everlasting joy to his ears; one pretty girl, in a new world of magnificent morbidity; a bright flower among so many – however beautiful – weeds.

And he would make sure she would not wither.

That – _de Chagny, will never have her._

_He shall not have her._

But, at the same time, he could not have her either. No; she was not his, he was hers; forever and a day, no matter how much she denied it.

He turned away – though he felt he could never tire of her beauty, he should not over indulge himself.

_One pretty girl, in the house of a dead man._

_Death and the Maiden._

_How appropriate._

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No references to the bit in Labyrinth between Jareth and Sarah,__ please!_references to the bit in Labyrinth between Jareth and Sarah,**

**I'm so happy! I've _finally _read Susan Kay's Phantom – thanks, Hriviel, I owe so much to you! – and I see just what all the fuss is about. It really is so good. And so hopeful at the end. And full of such good quotes. Sigh. I can die happy. Not that I mean I want to die now, I just – oh, forget it. Also, I can see why quite a lot of people are calling Kay Christine a wuss – I thought, she can't be _that_ bad – and then I read it. And now I must agree that yes, she _is _a bit of a wuss, heaven help me. She can't help it, but she is. Oh, dear. There goes another of my fantasies. I fear my Christine is a bit 'wussy' now as well – well, she's all despairing all over the place. I'm sure a lot of you would die to be in her place – considering the circumstances, I think being dead would be a useful asset. **

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Read! Review! I'm going to Ireland, so I want lots of reviews when I get back!**


	17. Awakenings

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO, or Crospe Bride. I do, however, own my fairly bought and paid for copy of Irish Ghosts and Hauntings. Yes, the ghost story fiend is _back!_**

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Top of the morning to you all! Or evening, or whenever you're reading this. I'm adjustable.**

**Well, here I am, back from the Emerald Isle! I had a lovely break, seeing all my relatives and staying in my grandfather's house, Kilmurry,in the country. And before you ask, _no one killed Murry._ It actually means 'Church of Mary', or something alongthose lines - my grandfather was very religious. I love it there; looking down into the garden - which is _very_ big; although more of a wilderness than anythign else- and looking across to the mountains - _not _at the bottom of the garden; a long way away on the other side of the river, which _is _at the bottom of the garden; clambering over the stones set up on the side of the drive, skimming stones on the aforesaid river, fighting our way through the undergrowth until we either scared off or were scared off by a stag which had somehow turned up there, which doesn't surprise me...in short, I have been communing with nature, and I was really sad to leave; which I always am. But now it means I have a chance to further my book! I've had a truly _wonderful _idea concerning it – but since it doesn't have any relevance here, I won't go into it. I've also had time to think of what to come next in the story. Yes, I've _definitely _had a wonderful holiday! But first – some acknowledgments to my reviewers.**

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musicallover: I liked Kay's Phantom - another form of self actualization, I found out - but I don't have any particular favourite scene. Okay, don't tell. That was quite by accident; but I liked it just the same - it only just occurred to me. 'Fate links me to thee forever and a day!' Amazing what you can unconsciously think of, isn't it? I don't think she's going to be relaxed yet - after all, she's been abducted to the after life and has now found that Erik believes her to be his lawful bride. Would _you_ be calm? No, don't answer that. I like E/C and R/C, but I am an E/C shipper nonetheless. But it's good that you are flexible. Chips for you. SB.**

**SimplyElymas: More confetti! Yay! (Gets top hat and dances in the streets.) Ahem. I thought that was a good idea as well. V. Erik, v. good. In run with the Master, whoo hoo! Thanx, faithful reviewer!**

**Willow Rose: It is, indeed, wonderful. Oh, the joy of reading it! Aw, don't poke Christine. It's not her fault she's a wuss. Well...not much. Oh, I'm sorry luv! So sorry! You're not a weed, you're a lovely Willow Rose! Don't sniffle! Don't cry! Don't make me feel guilty! You're lovely! You've lovely! Be happy! Here is an update to cheer you up!**

**MetalMyersJason: Indeed she is! Ah, muses - and basements. What a weird, exciting, wonderful life you lead. Everyone has a fetish - I'm just not sure what my one is yet.**

**Mominator124: Not really - I've been over there so many times it's lost some of its novelty. It's still nice to go there, though. I thought of when he trashes the lair when she takes off his mask in the film, and again later on at the end - and how cool and helpful it would be if the lair just learnt to repair itself, if he threw fits a lot of the time. I think you're right about the horse - he's never been exactly solid in this realm, so now he has to get used to walking everywhere - and punting; which, handily enough, he is very good at straight away. I went to Kerry, so I didn't get to see the stone - but I passed it on my way there from Cork, and imagined bending over backwards to kiss it, as you have to do. Do you think that's where the saying 'to bend over backwards' comes from? Thanx, Barb!**

**Voldivoice: I brought you some! (Virtual post of lucky four leaf clovers - so many times the luck!) I'm only half Irish, so you beat me there. May the clovers give you luck, and help you overcome writers' block if and when you have it. Isn't it amazing, the way Erik still manages to be sexy even after all I do to him? There is something uncanny about it all! Like I said, Hriviel might still be up on the offer, if you check out her story. Or something. Thanks for the luck, it hardly rained at all - except when we arrived. What a username! No doubt you're very pleased at how much scope your 'husband' (I guess?) got in HP and the Half-blood prince? Thanks again!**

**Ripper de la Blackstaff: Hi there! Wuss...hmm. How best to explain? 'Wuss' is, basically, a not very complimentary name for someone who might also be described as a 'wet-hen' - a grown person who cries when baby birds fall out of nests and die, even though that is the fate Mother Nature usually reserves for such unfortunate baby birds. You get the picture. Not that I'm saying that we shouldn't be sad at the death of baby birds or anything...I'm really not very good at these explanations, am I? In a sense, yes, they are married. At least, he thinks they are - though she doesn't, by any means. Wedding night...the possibilities! Good idea about the singing; but there's a little thing called 'free will', which my Erik is an enthusiast of; strange but true. It is indeed the name of a painting, as far as I know; they did a play in my school about a year back, called by that title; and with a picture like that on the programmes - though the play was about something else entirely. You like necromancy, don't you? Have you seen the 'Anita Blake' series? Woah, don't try to kill Raoul just yet! I understand your desire to avenge Erik, but there's no need to plan out a massacre just yet! I know - I feel for poor Erik. He loves her; yet at the moment he can't have her. Why? Because I'm mean! Remembered what you were going to say yet? Cheers to you too!**

**Lydiby: Umm...yeah. How does that connect? Never mind. Why would you explode at the thought of me going to Ireland? I'm not annoyed, I'm genuinely curious. Somehow _I _don't think I'd be able to top that French kiss of all French kisses - or would I want to? Something to think about...again. Made me think of things other than summertime as well. No problem about the review thing. I should have reviewed more often, I think; please try to forgive? Bitter Chocolate Death? Have you ever heard of Death By Chocolate? I'm not sure what it is myself, since when I went along to some such thing all they had was melted dark chocolate; and I hate dark chocolate. But you might like it! I've never read Sunshine - is it good? And don't worry; believe me, I've gotten more than flecks of blood on my copy of HP and the Philosopher's Stone - great gouts of the stuff, in fact. Don't ask, 'cos I won't tell - unless you're _very _interested. I would dearly love to join this 'Sexy Librarian's Guild', if you will give me the address or something. I've never heard of the Bloomsbury group, but yours sounds very interesting; with morbid tea-parties and discussions of what would happen if you kissed someone rotting and everything. Sneezing blood is not a requirement? How about weeping blood? Bet _that_ made you start up, didn't it? Seriously; I don't actually weep blood as such(you know, out through my tear ducts, because if I did I would be _very _worried) but I somehow seem to have developed this weird tendency to have nosebleeds whenever I start crying heavily. For example; at the end of Fellowship of the Ring in the cinema, I was crying quietly to myself (oh, everyone's going to start calling _me_ a wuss now - but it was just _so _sad!) and suddenly I found out that I was crying and bleeding all over my fleece top at the same time. Which made things rather difficult, as you can imagine. I now tend to set by a store of tissues whenever I watch a sad movie, like Titanic - for my eyes, because I know I'm going to cry, and for my nose, because I fear it will bleed. What _have _you gotten yourself into, you might well wonder?**

**Rikku Ree: What can you indeed? Well…things come to mind…and there they shall stay. I suppose it does have some originality, since this is probably the first time someone has done this…maybe. What does XD mean? The thing with me is, I tend to spend time describing people's actions, and than the next paragraph starts with something someone says, and so on…just my little thing. Too far in to change, perhaps, perhaps not, but thanks for saying it. Being a vampire might be an asset; but I don't really think I'd like to get bitten on the neck. I mean, it would _hurt! _And it would kill me as well. Which would kind of be the whole point of the thing, I suppose. The stake, cutting off head and sunlight I could do without though. Like I said on POTO: What 'they' didn't want you to see, I don't like the sun too much. _HISS!_ IT BURNS! Strength would be good – then I could beat my sister at arm-wrestling and get her in head locks. But all in all, a living corpse does have some originality – because after all, as Lydiby said, it's so much harder to be physically attracted to a man whose face might come off as you broke off from kissing than to a sexy, sexy vampire. Here is my update – and a really big reply to you!**

**Tiny Toni: Nice that you reviewed as well. (Sorry you didn't get as big replies as those above, but – and no offence meant – you didn't write much for me to reply to. Don't worry, I still like you!) **

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* * *

Well, time for some normality - of sorts - to encroach upon this lovely scene, don't you think? Oh, before I go any further, I must say that for a while a certain system regarding the scenes will be set up; there will be a couple of Erik-and-Christine-in-the-lair-scenes, then a scene up (really up, you could say) in the mansion; then another few scenes down in the lair...and so on. This is more to suit the story, as no doubt you lot will find out in time; but for now I'll simply say that it's to please all you Erik nuts out there.**

**Besides, we're on Chapter - what is it? - Seventeen; and we haven't had an actual appearance of Nadir yet. Well, technically we have, but not from his viewpoint. But that can be easily remedied, with merely a click of the key board. And a little imagination. Whee hee!**

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* * *

**

While you here do snoring lie, (1)

**Open eyed conspiracy**

**His time doth take.**

**If of life you keep a care,**

**Shake off slumber and beware:**

**Awake, awake!**

**Shakespeare's The Tempest**

* * *

((1) Wouldn't it be _so _funny if Christine actually snored in the film?

**

* * *

**

Awakenings

_Something has happened..._

He forged his way through the darkness; through the sudden walls that had sprung up seemingly overnight - if there was such a thing as night in the Land of the Dead. Since he had last visited Erik, then; and that had been quite recently.

But now, suddenly, something had changed. He had felt it, far away in relative terms as he was; and it had shaken him.

And now new solidity had come into the way that Erik's realm worked...

_Erik...what have you done?_

For he had no doubt that Erik was behind whatever had caused all this unbalance in their world; behind the tremor that had run through the Land of the Dead, and every being within it. Others might not be so suspicious; but he knew Erik. Or rather, he did not know. He did not know what Erik might have dared, in the new recklessness that was his, as he was strengthened by that voice from above.

He shuddered, as he tore through yet another opposition; feeling his very being shudder, in discomfort of a sort. _How has he gained this power? What has happened?_

Whatever had happened, it was his business to find out. And to rectify it, if at all possible.

_Oh, Erik...you _do _like to make my existence difficult, don't you?_

* * *

Slowly, deftly, Christine fought her way out of the dream which could almost have been fashioned for her - a cocoon of delightful nothingness, in which she could float forever and never have to do anything, ever again; where she could sleep and think of nothing.

_Except the song..._

_And that face..._

At the thought of that, she struggled even more. She would fight, rather than be shut in the dark with that - with _that _face. She would rather wake, even-

And with that, her eyes opened - not exactly snapping open, since she had had to fight against some of her natural lethargy still present; but still opening, rather than remaining shut. A feast of colour met her eyes, almost making her close them again in dizziness.

Was she sick? Was she drunk? Had she had too much wine the previous night? No...she didn't even remember eating anything...

Involuntarily, her eyes opened again; and looked up at a ceiling which was not by any means the ceiling of her room; for that ceiling was not constructed out of rock; nor hung with black lace.

_Oh, no._

Once again memories flooded in to fill the gap in her memory. Somehow, they were much worse now than when she had first woken - how long ago had that been now? How could she know? - for now she had the remembrance of what had been said.

_He thinks I am his wife..._

The sick feeling was still with her; it would not go away. Now she _really _felt as if she might vomit.

_Don't - think of that._

Trying desperately to focus on something - anything, rather than _that_ - she became aware, for perhaps the first time, of the opulence, the almost luxury, of her surroundings; the ruby red of the velvet coverlet which covered her, the softness of the cushions upon which she lay, the tapestries which hung upon the walls - but she was tired of awakening in strange places, in-

Only now did she realise just how she had been able to feel the velvet of the coverlet against her skin - namely because there was practically nothing between them; her arms were bare. In a sudden, almost panic, she realised that she was she didn't know _how _unclothed under the coverlet - a sensuous and defenceless delight, at the same time.

Now truly in a deadly panic - what if _he _had decided to consummate the marriage, or something to that effect? _Would he? Would he _dare? - she ripped the thin coverlet off of her; and breathed a sigh of immense, everlasting relief as she saw that she still at least wore her corset and petticoats, and felt the chemise under them - though her deep corset certainly felt much looser than it had before she had fallen asleep, at least as far as she could recall - and her legs and feet were shamefully bare under the folds of her chemise.

Where were her clothes? Her jacket, her skirt, her riding shirt; her stockings and boots? Where had they all gone? She was - she began to giggle, almost hysterically - practically undressed, in a man's bed..._his _bed...

She dug her fingernails hard into her palm, to dispel her hysteria. She couldn't stay here, like this, in this position. And she couldn't stay dressed like this either. _I can't go around the underworld half naked!_

Carefully, she slid from between the sheets; her bare feet meeting a wonderfully soft, fluffy carpet, which tickled their soles and warmed them instantly; she stood up, and even that simple action made her want to fall to the floor to quell the feeling of nausea in her gut. Tentatively she took one step forward, and then another; all the while expecting to overbalance and fall and bring _him _running.

_That _thought was enough to sober her at once; and send a shiver running through her frame. She had more than half a mind to throw the velvet coverlet around herself - at least it would do something to keep her warm, and shield her bare skin from an undesired gaze - but as she turned back to the elaborate bed, to do just that, her eyes caught sight of something else, laid on at the foot of it, half covered by the thrown back coverlet - something black...

Curious, she moved the red velvet aside, and her fingers met black velvet, much thicker than the coverlet; as she picked it up and held it up to the dusky light overhead it fell down to pool at her feet; a strange garment, like a slightly macabre version of a dressing gown, only clearly meant for someone much taller than her - if the length of it was anything to go by - and larger as well.

Was this _meant _for her?

Could she _wear _it?

Was she _expected_ to?

The very thought of such a thing made her feel cold all over; but there didn't seem to be anything else she could wear with relative ease. So she shivered into the garment; sliding her arms down the sleeves and letting the material settle on her shoulders; pulling her free-flowing hair out from beneath the robe so as to decrease her discomfort. It was surprisingly warm, and delightfully soft; and instead of the death smell she had secretly been dreading she found it gave off more a hint of spices than anything; certainly not decay, at any rate. The whole thing dwarfed her; but at least it covered her, if she held the edges of it firm around her.

Aware of what a fool she must look, although now suitably covered, she found herself looking around the bedroom - if you could call it that - which, to her, looked more like an ornately decorated cavern; _very_ ornately decorated. Why, the tapestries on the walls must surely be worth a _fortune_, let alone the bed and its coverings! And the carpet upon which she stood, which seemed to be made from fur, fluffy white fur, or fleece - she wasn't really in a position to tell the difference - would probably be costly even in the de Chagny household. But for all these items, there were more outlandish items - a bronze working of some kneeling Hindu god; a strange music box, with a model monkey set on top, dressed in strange, Oriental seeming robes...

_What sort of person is this - man? Where has he been? What must he have seen?_

As she thought this, she continued her tentative inspection of her surroundings; her eyes turning towards the entrance to this cavern-room-

- through which was coming music...

_And what music!_

She felt her jaw drop, her fingers slacken and loose their grip on the robe, as the music assailed her ears. Truly, what music! Though it was only one violin, she knew that one violin was held in and played by the hands of a master - a true master, a master of music itself. _Do those skeleton fingers truly hold genius?_

Yet for all the beauty of the music, she was not so overcome that she could not recognise the piece which was being played. She could recognise it, all right. She had heard that music before...

Slowly, carefully, drawing the folds of the strange gown around her once more - feeling the edges which trailed on the floor trail after her like a train of sorts - she crept towards the entrance to this cul-de-sac cavern; and towards the source of the divine sound.

* * *

He lay back in his chair, lounging against the back of the seat, gazing up at the ceiling. It was the deep breath before the plunge, which he had always experienced, even when he was alive - that pause, before he launched into something - anything - that he _knew _would be good; would be more than good - would be great; would be marvellous. It was glorious; truly glorious - because he knew, he _knew_, that this would be more wonderful than anything else in his existence...

..._and this time, it will last forever._

A hand reached out, stroked the feathers on the quill pen nearby...

_...would that it were _her _curls under finger..._

The thought made him smile, and then chuckle uncontrollably. It _was _funny - and here was he who had believed he would never laugh again...

With a louder chuckle, he swirled around in his seat-

_Well, what a pleasant surprise, _he thought, with an added mental giggle that would certainly have made him blush when he was calm - if he had been capable of blushingThere stood Nadir, on the shoreline on the lake once again, as if he had never left from that last visit - except he looked as bedraggled as it was possible for a spirit _to_ look; and he was wearing an expression of such incredulity on his face that, if he hadn't wanted to collapse in laughter before, certainly made him desire to do so now.

"Nadir!" he called out, shooting up out of his chair; barely able to conceal his mirth, almost his hysteria. "Pray do not stand on ceremony! Sit, kneel; anything, rather than stand!" The laughter gurgled uncontrollably from his throat as he saw the other being's eyes only widen, and his jaw drop still further, if that was at all possible.

"My, _my_, Nadir; what _ever _is the matter with you? You look as if you'd seen a ghost!"

Abruptly the older being's mouth clamped shut; the shock was swiftly banished, to be replaced by guarded anger. _"Erik..."_

_Oh dear, _he thought, without much dread. Nadir's displeasure inspired no fear in him in any case, and even less so now. Who cared about anything that the Persian could inflict upon him, when he had Christine?

_I certainly don't, for one._

The very thought of her, lying asleep in the chamber 'upstairs', so to speak, filled him with an elatedness which almost made him giddy; made him able to ignore Nadir's disapproval even more so than he usually did; to seize upon his violin, and fix the Daroga with a none too gentle grin. He was aware that he wasn't acting normally, but...

_But I am in love._

"But what am I thinking of? You _must _have some music to welcome your arrival!" Fingers that, to his eyes, were both flesh covered and skeletal, at the same time, positioned the violin under his chin; his other hand swept up his bow; all customary actions, and yet all a new delight to him - because he now had a body with which to perform them. "So, what will you have, Nadir? I am open to any request!"

_If it were possible for the weather to be imprinted upon faces,_ he thought idly, _then there would _definitely_ be a storm brewing between Nadir's eyebrows._

"Erik..." The Persian's voice came like the growl of some beast. "What have you _done?"_

He shrugged, secretly delighting at the further fury that was now being imprinted upon Nadir's face. "Really, Daroga, you _must _let go of your policeman tendencies! Remember, it was you who told _me _to forget the world above?"

"Erik, you-"

"No desires, Daroga? Then I shall just have to choose a piece myself!" He raised the bow to the strings. "What shall I play you, Daroga? I know, I shall play you _The Resurrection of Lazarus!"_

He _felt_ rather than heard Nadir give a splutter of rage as he began; no doubt at his choice of music as much as anything else. As the bow raced across the strings, as the music spilled from his fingers and streamed out from his mind, he lost sight of Nadir's outraged face; the music drowned out the Persian's protests; drowned out anything but the sheer joy with which he played the piece; played the music that brought Lazarus back to life – and brought him back to life, and love. For he was in love; and if the one he loved heard his music, surly she would forget her fear; forget everything, except love.

But he thought nothing of that now; all he could do was play.

_

* * *

What music!_

She had crouched half way upon the steps leading up to the bedroom; her corset allowing her to do so now, and for that she felt faintly grateful, despite the outrage she obviously felt at it having been loosened at all. She felt like the child she had once been; escaping her sleeping nurse to sit upon the stairs and listen to her father playing the violin to his guests in the evenings; the sheer thrill of both being out of bed at such a late hour, and the joy she felt at listening to her wonderful, talented father, as well as the applause that had come after the music, made up some of her most cherished memories.

The situation she was in now was similar; but the emotions she felt were far from childish. An exquisite turbulence of wonder, awe, doubt, and that cold dagger blade of _terror_ roiled within her heart, as she huddled into herself, her arms pulling the robe tighter around herself, even as the music sent chills up her spine, and flowed into her ears like – oh, she didn't know what, except that it was pure, liquid gold; like heaven condensed into the music of one – man.

Yet she knew that piece – had heard Papa play it; many times before his death.

_The Resurrection of Lazarus._

_What does that mean? For him? For me?_

At that thought, she awoke from the ecstasy of the music she heard. True that he played and sang like an angel – but the one whom she looked upon even now, his violin under his chin, his hand soaring and taking the bow with it; his dress suit – _a suit fit for a wedding, _she thought, with a fresh surge of dread – shed – mostly; his coat and extravagant waistcoat throw aside, his white shirt open, and to her relief his well muscled chest showing no alternative signs of the corruption that had claimed his leg and arm to her eyes; _why _was she thinking of that? – his near perfect face raised to the candlelight, his eyelids closed over his yellow eyes, the warm light tracing over his cheeks –

_Stop that, you little idiot! _most of her mind reprimanded the tiny, treacherous part that seemed for that moment to have taken over. _What are you _thinking?

And indeed what _was _she thinking? Erik, if that was his name, deserved none of her admiration; none at all, only her fear and dread. He had kidnapped her against her will; brought her down to the underworld, to this place…

And he meant to marry her.

At that thought, all the old horror reclaimed her.

_He is a corpse – I _cannot_ marry him!_

_I don't _want _to marry him!_

_He can't _make _me!_

Armed with this childish resolve, which stoked new fire in her – _I hope – _she shot up from her seated position; the robe rippling around her. She had half a mind to tear it off her frame, but for the fact that this would allow _him _to see more of her exposed flesh.

_I will _not_ remain here. He cannot keep me like some sort of pet._

But her attention was distracted in the next moment, as a movement to her left rattled through her; swivelling like a top she saw with horror that in her swift action she had somehow jolted and overbalanced the elaborate candelabra against which she had rested her head, as she had crouched upon the steps, out of sight. She had assumed that the thing was so heavy – when she had leaned her full weight upon it – that there would be no danger of her upsetting the thing.

_It seems I was wrong._

Before she could do anything, the massive ornament had toppled off the edge of the stairs, the candles dislodging from their holders as if to escape the fate of the great structure which until then had supported them – but to no avail; candelabra, candles and all, disappeared over the edge; and a moment later a splash, vast and booming, echoed through the cavern; wildly she heard the music jerk to a halt; expected any moment to see _his _face bearing down on her, filled with outrage-

Desperately she looked around for some means of _escape – _but instead her vision was filled – obscured – by a figure; quite far away, and yet filling ever part of her gaze. Another person – she hadn't realised that there had been someone else with him. There had only been the music – and then her fears and determination. But now she could see that there was indeed someone; dressed in dark, exotic looking clothes – a man, she could see his face, his eyes, wide with surprise – oh, this power to see every detail, even though he was so far away! – and the moustache above his lips, and the dark beard below it, which did not quite reach down to his-

His…

_Oh, my God…dear heaven…_

It was as if a veil had come down over her senses; finally shutting out the horror before it wrenched her stomach and innards; for which she was profoundly thankful. Dreamily she felt her face slip from its frozen rictus of what she didn't know; the nauseous feeling in her stomach swept through her…

She leaned instinctively against the candelabra…

…which wasn't there…

_I wish, _she thought critically, detachedly, as she undoubtedly began to follow in the candelabra's wake, _that I could go for more than a little while in this realm without fainting._

* * *

The splash had brought him back to his senses; broken him off from the world of music which he had inhabited, regardless of Nadir's shouts, or almost pleas, to be heard. Perhaps not even _that_ would have worked, but for the sake of the one who had made the sound.

She stood upon the top of the stairs, his robe around her, gracing her form however large it was on her; suiting her and her pale colouring, to his eyes, far better than it had ever done for him; her face a mask of horror yet again – yet it was not because of the candelabra which she had obviously unwittingly sent to a watery grave, nor even now himself.

No, her eyes were trained on Nadir; her mouth not now open, as it had been when she had first seen him, but her lips firmly clenched shut, as if to stop a scream – or something else – escaping from between them.

It was Nadir who caused her to shrink back – Nadir who caused her to lean over in faintness…not he, but Nadir…

_Well, that certainly makes a nice change, _he thought, even as, in a wild state of horror, he dropped the violin and bow, flew up the steps and caught her in his arms and…_she's safe. Safe…_

And she moaned, and buried her face in his shoulder…admittedly probably to stop herself from being sick, but still…

_A very nice change indeed._

* * *

She was so young, that was what struck him about first. _So very young._ As he had seen her, standing at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide, her hair falling about her face in tangled locks, her pale hands drawn to her face half in horror of what she had done, and half in horror at _him, _no doubt – for he had no illusions about what he now looked like – he was struck not so much by her beauty, though that was truly very great, as by her general air of innocence, of purity – and alarm, almost desperation…

_Damn you, Erik; why have you done this?_

He knew why; he had seen Erik's face as he had dropped his precious instrument without a second glance, and hared up the steps without any of his usual dignity or reserve; caught the girl up in his arms – the solid arms of a body – and how he had bent over her, with such concern, such attention…and when he carried her down, and placed her so carefully on the chaise lounge, and then knelt at her side, without a second glance at him!

_That…that _monster! _That utter demon! How could he, how has he done this-_

"Daroga," he said, without looking around, "there is some wine on the table. Get it at once."

Instinctively he opened his mouth in indignation; but there was something in his companion's voice, despite his own outrage, that made him obey – once again.

_How does he manage to _do_ this? How can he make me do exactly as he wants, at a time like this? And how…how has he done…_

Unable to speak, he brought the wretched bottle of wine; snatching it from his grasp, with a rasp of alternately bony fingers, _he_ un-stoppered it and held it first to the girl's nose, and then to her lips.

"Erik-"

"Don't interrupt, me, Daroga." Once again without even looking round at him. How he dared, after all that he had done!

"Yes I _will_, Erik! What in the name of _sanity_ is going on here?"

_His _reply – which he was sure would not be the answer to the question, but something far ruder – was interrupted in its turn, by a groan from she, the young goddess, who lay upon the sofa; a splutter as the wine made her cough-

"Back! Back, I tell you! _Back!"_ In an instant, he felt as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer, both in his gut, and much more in his mind – _Allah, that _hurt! – and almost driven back to the edge of the water; how he could not tell, by some great strength and frenzy on Erik's part that he had never known to exist – until now. He fought and mastered the waves of – not exactly pain, but certainly extreme discomfort from whatever Erik had done – and shot out his arm, grabbing Erik's wrist – so solid – and miraculously holding it, by some strange chance.

"Don't you _dare_, Erik," he said, as calmly as you could. "Or it will be _you _going into the lake, not me."

The whirlwind around him decreased, and he was able to once more see Erik's face. If it were not for the flash in his eyes, one might think there was nothing the matter with him at all. Allah give him patience, he did not even pause; simply said, as if nothing at all had happened, "Forgiveness please, my friend. But I will not have you walking around here to frighten her. I would not do that to her."

"Do that to her! Look at _you_; you're practically a living skeleton! What have you _done_ to yourself, Erik?"

Laughing as if he had not even heard the question, the other divested himself of his restraining wrist as easily as if he were no stronger than smoke; perhaps he was, compared to him now. "A living skeleton I may now look like, Nadir, if I did not look like one before; but at least _I_ do not go walking around the Land of the Dead with my throat slit from ear to ear. That is a sight, I will warrant, that would put a female off even more than the sight of _my_ face. But still, I will not have it in here." He pointed towards the distant mouth of the cavern; more for effect than anything else, he suspected. "Now, go, Daroga. I will come to you later – but not yet. Not now."

_Damn you, you...you…_

"I won't be sent away like a dog, Erik. If you think that, then you must truly have given up your sense for this new form." _And this new power of yours, _he added mentally.

Erik's smile faltered for a second – only a second; and then it was revived, but not with as much intensity. "I would not wish that on anybody, Nadir. Least of all you. But I ask you now to respect the privacy of my home; as well as my affairs."

The quietness of his voice managed to quell him, as it always did, no matter how angry he was at the time – though, he admitted, he had never been as furious as this. But he could not resist the jibe. "And she…is _she _another of your possessions? Another trinket to join your many treasures?"

"Indeed no, Daroga." Erik's voice was so low now, that it sent a chill even through _him _– and Allah knew he had seen a lot in his life that had conditioned him to whatever he might encounter in death. And he shuddered as the other looked up; the whimsical candlelight shining in his yellow, tawny eyes; his smile now bright and all the more unnerving. "She is my wife."

And before he could say anything, do anything, unfreeze his mind, even react, Erik added, as pleasantly as could be, "Be careful how you go, Daroga."

And in the next instant he was gone from the cavern, the lair; from Erik's realm; he knew not how. He was left alone, in darkness, with those words echoing around and around in his head; and the image, just before Erik had somehow banished him…of she, pushing herself up on the sofa, her eyes half open but nonetheless turned to him, and a pleading expression on her face – saying, without words, _do not leave me…_

_She is my wife…_

…_my wife…_

_Oh, Allah…oh, Erik…_

…_now that I know what you have done…_

…_what will happen because of it? What will happen to you?_

_What will happen to all of us?_

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Poor Nadir! He _never_ seems to get a break, does he? But at least I've dealt him rather better than Leroux did – the first time Nadir saw Erik with Christine, he got hit over the head for his trouble. At least he got through this without any injuries – except to his pride. And now you all know for certain how he died! Everyone still in love with him?**

**I decided for Erik to play _The Resurrection of Lazarus _for two reasons; one because there wouldn't really be an opportune time for Christine to visit the graveyard to hear her 'Angel of Music' play; and two, to slightly mock Nadir, and rub it in his spectral face that he's been resurrected – in a manner of speaking…**

**I've always liked the little bedroom in the lair in the film, and the candelabras; and I liked Erik's robe in the film as well. Why should he have to wear a silly Chinese hat? But all the same, I thought the robe would do just as well for Christine – why should _she _have to wear lacy nightgowns all the time? _Equality for divas!_**

**And yes, she is behaving like a wuss again – and even she admits it. But really, would _you _react to seeing a man with his throat slit from ear to ear with joy? One again, don't answer that – unless you're feeling _very _strongly on the subject.**

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Read and review! Oblige the half Irish seamstress!**


	18. The sickness within

**Disclaimer: I don't own either Phantom or Corpse Bride. If I did, I would surely be rich. But I'm not. So nuts.**

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Moonjava: Thanks for the review!**

**musicallover: True. I don't think I'd be afraid so much as having a screaming fit, or something. I don't think Christine's so very wussy – she's just woken up, she's in an underground lair (though at least she doesn't have Doctor Evil from Austin Powers in there with her) and now she sees a guy walking around, perfectly normal, but with a great big slit in his throat. Nadir does kick ass – then again, he has every right to do so. And Erik is, indeed, doing something. Whee to everything! Here is the next chapter.**

**MetalMyersJason: I am inclined to think it was murder. Well I would, I'm writing the thing after all. Nice of you to offer to do that, though – though it wouldn't do much good now. I mean, since he's already dead and all. Does he keep her? We shall have to see, won't we? It all depends on the characters themselves. Nice muses. Everyone has muses! Why don't I get a muse? I want a muse! Wasn't the trailer so good? Victor is good looking, and he does look like Johnny Depp – but _why _did he have to have black lips? He could look like Erik, though, you know! Good thinking! Another reason for me doing this!**

**Morianerulz: No problemo! Doesn't matter – even with a spell checker, I still spell things wrong a lot of the time! Darn computer crashes! You like my Christine? Yay! (More confetti.) I shall definitely look out for a copy. I can cope with long books, I think – I managed to read War and Peace. I hope Hriviel's offer is still going! If not, I could always try and send you a copy of mine – if I can figure out how to do it. I hope your muses both had a nice holiday. Thanks for the Christine back – even though I don't need her at the moment. I like Nadir's point of view – a stronghold in this whirling sea of strangeness. Here is more for you to enjoy!**

**Voldivoice: Good to know about the subconscious evil. Everyone wants to rule the world, I find – don't know why. In my opinion, it's not much of a world in some places. Erik is indeed cool. No problem about the clovers – there's loads of them at a waterfall in a great big valley near our house over there. We have everything there, don't we? Maybe they will indeed work. (Crosses fingers and hopes fervently.)**

**Polly Moopers: Poor Nadir! I don't think Erik is cruel to him – I just think he doesn't want Christine to faint anymore. See, he's _nice_, if not exactly fuzzy. A hysterical Resurrection scene makes a change to one where Raoul gets hit over the head or something. I'm going! And I'm coming back, to write more for you!**

**Willow Rose: Ooo, ooo, _ooo! _I went to Scotland once! It's so nice there, even though I didn't get to see the Loch Ness monster, and I nearly slipped on a jelly fish! Ahem. Let me explain. We were staying at a hotel by the sea, and one morning after a rather rainy night I went walking out on the quay, and suddenly I nearly slipped on something, and when I looked down I saw I'd trodden in…urgh. Thank goodness I was wearing trainers, that's all I can say. But Scotland is still lovely. My sister is going to university there. Tut tut, naughty not to update! But at least you're doing it now. And enjoy this update as well! (I'm going to have to find another word other than 'enjoy', aren't I?) Blessed be to you, my faithful mostly Scottish reader.**

**Zillah666: Doh! I should have realised that ! I worry about my French GCSE, I really do. Thanks for pointing it out, I promise to alter it. Thanks for the review!**

**Chantilly xx Lace: Thank you very much! You know, I thought of that as well. I found another website, a little while ago; it's got some very good original Phantom paintings, including a special one…take a look at http: (slash, slash) muse-gallery (dot) com (slash) rosywood (Slash.) There are some really beautiful pictures, which I'm sure you'll like.**

**SimplyElymas(I assume this is you): I'm sure I'd know how you'd react. I think that is Nadir's role in Erik's life, actually – that he has someone to annoy. I love Chicago; whenever I play it I always sing along to 'He had it coming'. One of _the_ best songs of all time. Good for you; I hope he adores you too. You certainly deserve his love, you are so devoted. One of the best stories on the site? Oh, I thank you, my faithful reviewer! (Dances in the rain – of which there is a lot at the moment.)**

**Rikku Ree: I don't see much anime – I don't get much time for television these days – but I'll take your word for it. I see your dilemma, so I shall help you out. Before he got resurrected, so to speak, Erik looked fairly normal – or as normal as he could look. That is to say, he looked like himself normally, with his mask, his dress clothes which he was wearing to go to his mortal wedding, and with a great big gash in his side, the cause of his death. This is also just why Nadir goes around with a big gash in his throat – when someone dies, in my phic, their spirit keeps the shape they had while they died. Meanwhile, up above, Erik's body, lying in its grave in the woods, was being subjected to decay and stuff – I am aware that if the body had been in the earth for only a little while, he'd have lost a lot more than the flesh off his arm and leg; but I'm using artistic licence here – but now that he's been reunited with said body, his morphic state of sorts is trying to work with having the body; and isn't doing very well at it so far. Also, since he has, in effect, cheated death, he's gotten much more powerful, since he now knows that he's not just confined to the Land of the Dead anymore. Nadir is still stuck as just a spirit, since he can't get his body back, so he's not as powerful, not having as much solidity. Cute anime! Glad you agree. The sun is indeed evil! When I was only about eight, we were told all about it causing skin cancer, and shown _pictures…_which is not the nicest thing to show an eight year old who has previously gotten lots of sunburn. _Shudder. _Here is your update!**

**Lydiby: Aw, poor you! I'm sorry for rubbing it in your face that I'm going places, even if I didn't mean to! That was so mean of me! Chin up, you may get to go to exciting places someday. I've only been out of Europe once. But then again, I've been a lot of places in Europe…somehow, I don't think I'm helping, so I'll just stop. WHY! I don't know. Bear with it, and one day you will succeed. Killer Zebras? I've heard of killer squirrels, killer racoons – but killer zebras are a first. I like Buffy the vampire slayer, it makes my laugh, but I don't take it seriously. There are apparently statues somewhere in the world that 'weep blood' at times of strife, namely ones of the Virgin Mary. Thanks for the not calling me a wuss. It makes me feel much better. Anything for a fellow reviewer, heh heh! I hope I don't cry too much blood, otherwise I'll be all shrivelled up, as if _I'd _been attacked by a vampire! Virginia Woolf was the one who wrote _Orlando, _right? I haven't read the book yet, but I've the film version with Tilda Swinton, and I thought it was good. I don't know about it either, so we can all start from scratch. Wouldn't it be so cool if, years from now, we could say we belonged to the 'Sexy Librarian's Guild'? I hope we do not follow the fates of the originals, though. Wicked and occasionally gruesome senses of humour? That should certainly be an invitation to _rise_ to the occasion, don't you think?**

**Ripper de la Blackstaff: Hi! The French have better ways of saying everything. French is such a lovely language – pity I'm not that good at it! We've had bad experiences with birds in our household too – Dad hates the magpies that live in a tree outside our house, since they always use his car for 'target practise'. They're getting quite good at it too. What _really_ annoys him is that my mum and sister's cars escape from the slaughter. I haven't read the Anita Blake series myself, but I have heard about them. Lots of vampires and werewolves and necromancy and cool stuff. Aw, to make up for it, I shall give you some lovely E/C chapters later on, to make up for your lost Christmas. I don't think free will is so very overrated. If Erik didn't really love Christine, then perhaps he would make her into a submissive thing, but since he does love her, he wants her to love him for himself, and not because he forces her to. Sweet, innit? How Nadir had his throat cut? Well, it's very simple really; someone got him from behind and slashed a knife across his throat and severed his jugular vein and all his blood spurted out in a very pretty fountain…not what you were looking for, am I right? Don't let SimplyElymas get near you, otherwise she might kill you. I know, it's a nice gesture, even though it probably wouldn't hurt the violin – but since he's such a fine musician, he'd take real good care of his instruments. I thought resurrection was funny – gave chance for jibes. Interesting idea for wedding night – I'll give that due consideration. True, it is fair – but then again, in a way, it isn't. And, though I know I'm biased 'cause she's my character, I think she has a right to abstain from wanting to sleep with Erik – apart from the whole being kidnapped and him being a corpse thing, she is already engaged. But then again, supposedly she is married to Erik, in a sense. I've _really _not made it easy for her, have I? And before you go on about Raoul, it's a moral problem instead of just being engaged to a fop. Wow, a long answer! Hope you're happy!**

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Well, it had to happen – we've left off from Erik and Christine in the lair, and are back up in the house. But not with Meg, she's asleep; and not with Raoul either, since he is sleeping soundly as well, although there is a hint of innocent worry about Christine. Time to meet a new character, everybody; please welcome Celandine. (And yes, I am aware that some of you might think that's a daft name – but, if you think about it, so is Wendy (no offence to anyone who is called Wendy!) or really any name when you say it a few times over. All words sound strange when you say them again and again, I find. Anyway, I like this name, so it sticks.)****

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He had had a moment of clarity about how life should be lived: not as a child or as a woman. They were the two worst things to be.**

**The Lovely Bones**

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The sickness within

The bottle sat snugly in the palm of her hand, warming to the erstwhile heat of her skin, as she sat on the edge of the bed. In the sparse light of the moon that managed to edge its way between her closed curtains, the liquid inside looked almost black to her eyes; like bile.

She sat, her toes digging into the expensive carpet at the side of her bed, her eyes still crusty with the sleep that nevertheless would not come, and had only just been coming when queasiness had suddenly arrived instead. Doubtless everyone else in the house was asleep, even her brothers, even Grandpére, even Louis; her husband not in her bed, thank goodness for that, but stationed in another room; doubtless near the one La Sorelli would be occupying on the morrow.

_Everyone weighed down by dinner._

Except her.

_Except me. _

What dinner? She had hardly eaten anything. She had hardly been inspired to; for one she had little appetite these days in any case, and for another she knew anything she did eat was going to come up again sooner or later, which she had certainly been right about.

She looked at the bottle and its contents, and thought about cruelty; how cruel the world could be. How a life could be poisoned, not by harsh blows or wounds or fierce weapons, but by little trickles and rivulets of hate; poured into a defenceless mind drop by drop, until they all but choked the person who suffered; made them unable to give or receive love, because all they could do now was look at what lay around them, and despise it; could only look at themselves and wish they were dead to end this suffering; see those who caused their never ending plight and abhor them, with all that was left of their heart and mind and soul.

She thought of Louis. Of his treatment of her; but not in the way that people thought. People looked at her with pity because of all the mistresses he kept; but that was basically true with many men in France, and especially in Paris; inevitable. Louis's true cruelty was not in his infidelities, but in his neglect. He did not flaunt his whores in her face; that was just it. He did not care what she thought about him and his affairs; about how the world saw him. He did not care at all.

People said that there was so much beauty in the world; that it was God's miracle. Once, she had wanted the whole world, could have held it all within her heart. Now, if she had the world, with all the souls within it, and all the so-called beauty it contained, she would have given it all away, all of it, for love; any love, any understanding, any hope.

But the world was not hers, she knew that by now. It all belonged to men; everything belonged to men. Her fingers closed around the bottle, her flesh crushed against the glass. Why should it be so? Why should Grandpére and Louis have so much power, and she so little? Why should they be allowed to have as many mistresses as they liked, as she had heard the former probably had had and the latter she was certain of, and their wives had to remain chaste? Why should _they_ be allowed to get away with it?

_I can't._

The foul taste increased, as she recognised the warning signs; swiftly she shoved the bottle onto the counterpane as she slid onto her knees and leant over the bowl she had placed there in preparation.

And then there was nothing but a dry, agonized spell of retching; of feeling the little that she had eaten come straight back up and bringing stomach acid with it; burning her throat and her mouth and her tongue; her eyes screwed shut, so that she would not have to see what was spewing out of her. She thought she would choke on the vile flood; and secretly hoped she might, so that the nightmare would finally be over.

But that was not to be; eventually the flow ebbed, and then finally ceased, leaving only the burning in her mouth and the vile sickly smell in the air. She slowly straightened, shivering violently; she could feel the sweat on her already beginning to cool everywhere; on her head, between and under her breasts under her nightgown; on her stomach…

Like the stuff in the bottle, the contents of the bowl looked almost black in the moonlight. But for the smell, one might think, not looking at it too carefully, that it were her life's blood that had come spilling out of her; or something rather more solid, and from a place lower down than her stomach.

Wiping the leftovers from her mouth, and still shaking, she pulled herself back up onto her seat on the bed, and once again picked up the bottle, to look at once again. An obsession with such a little thing; but which held enough power within it to take so much away from a person. The power to take away life itself.

And once again she simply looked at it. Didn't put it away, didn't finally give in and simply drink the stuff. Just looked. But she didn't see the bottle.

Instead, in her mind, she relived again that morning, about two weeks ago now, when she had finally given in and forced herself to admit the truth; and also to send for Genevieve and admit to _her._

"_I have something to tell you," _she could recall as if it were _this _morning. _"I am very certain I am with child." _She had felt just as sick then as she had just now, if not more so – for this time she knew what had been coming, having had to endure it a number of times; but then she was on the brink of uncertainty.

"_Pregnant? But Celandine, that's so wonderful!" _Her sister had, of course, been delighted. _"When are you going to tell Louis?"_

"_Not now; and I'm not sure if I will."_

"_Why _not?_ This is your chance to prove yourself in his eyes! If it looks as if you're about to give him an heir, surely he will stop taking mistresses!"_

_Poor, silly Genevieve; you really have no idea about your brother-in-law._

"_Because I'm not sure it's his."_

"_What-" _She still recalled Genevive's face, with no effort, as her sister had suddenly understood. She hadn't been angry, she hadn't been shocked or upset; her face had just been…blank. Devoid of anything; staring into nothing, as if she could no longer see her. She had made to rise and go.

"_Wait!" _Pulling her down again, she had been desperate to make her story known.

And it had all come out – the trip into Paris, when Louis had undoubtedly met La Sorelli; the dinner party when she had met Pierre; the way he had seemed to understand her pain, her loss, so completely; a few nights later when he had invited her to his house when Louis had been out on business – no doubt to meet with a woman – and the brief passion that had followed – but not brief enough not to leave a large reminder.

"_He was kind to me – gentle. You have to have as little as I have to understand just what that means."_

And how would Genevive have understood? With her fairytale life, her loving husband, the favour of Grandpére? What would _she_ understand of suffering? Of dreading her husband taking her, because she knew it would hurt? Of desiring passionate embraces, silken caresses, that would never come?

And when her story had been finished, the elder had said nothing for a moment; then gotten up and walked to the door; when desperately challenged, she had said only, _"I will not tell Louis – or anyone else. I will be back."_

And she had given her _this; _heaven – or somewhere else – only knew where she had gotten it from. Her gaze focused again upon the bottle; but really on what lay inside it.

"_If you drink this, it will get rid of it."_

"_That's all?"_

"_Oh, there will certainly be pangs, and some blood – as if you were having your courses. But you had better do it soon, if you _are_ going to do it; otherwise it will just make you sick – and then everyone will know anyway."_

"_Why are you doing this for me?"_

"_Because you got yourself into this mess. I would reason that it is my job to help you get out of it – if you want get out of it." _She had glared at her; not like the elder sister she knew, but as another, harsher woman altogether. _"The choice, in the end, is up to you, Celandine. It's always up to you."_

And in saying that, and doing that, she had quietly slipped a dagger into her heart, much more deeply and sharply and painfully than if she had simply ordered her to take it when she gave it to her. She might have been able to do that; might have been able to in that situation. She was _so_ used to doing as she was told, after all.

But in giving her a _choice_…a choice between life and death…oh, that was cruel. That was devious beyond imagining.

Her fingers tightened on the bottle.

_I hate you, _she thought.

And she was no longer quite sure who that thought was directed at; at Grandpére for making her marry Louis; at Louis for his cruelty and neglect; at Genevieve for punishing her for her deed in such an appalling way, for presenting her with two sins, between which she must choose; or at herself, for letting all this come about; or even at the unborn child, sometimes, for causing her such agony.

But not for too long. No, it was not the child's fault; not its fault that it had been conceived in such a way.

_Whose is it, then?_

The liquid beneath the glass glugged. It was so simple, really, if she thought about it; all she had to do was drink, and then wait for the pain and the blood, and it would all be over. No more worry; no more fears of being denounced as an adulteress, no shame brought upon the family.

Only the memories. And the guilt.

But could she live with that? Could she live with the knowledge that she had destroyed a little life?

_This little life…_

And she got up, walked over to her wardrobe, and placed the bottle back from where she had brought it earlier that night, from its hiding place among her dresses. To be gotten out for another day or night of contemplation. And another. And another…

The night air blew chill about her as she placed the bowl, with its horrid contents, in her bathroom, and then got into bed again. Unconsciously, her hands went to the place where, even now, her secret was growing, and preparing to ruin her life when discovered.

She gazed up at the ceiling, at the canopy above her bed. Her empty, cold bed…

If she did not do it soon, it would be too late…

_I was too gutless to stand up to Louis; and now I'm too much of a coward to free myself. _

_Geraldine should have brought me poison instead._

_But even then, I'd be too afraid to die._

On instinct, she curled up, like a child in the womb herself, her knees up to her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs; her whole body almost cradling her child to be. Almost as if praying…but she had not said her prayers in a long, long time, and there seemed no point now. It was as if God had abandoned her.

She fell asleep listening to her heart beating, fancying that somewhere she could hear – or rather feel – the tiny fluttering of another, miniscule heartbeat; perhaps the tiniest little source of comfort in her vast, cold, empty bed; around which there was nothing but an ocean of fear.

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I'm aware that, being only pregnant for a few months, the child's heart wouldn't be beating yet – although I'm not sure. I'm not exactly an expert on the subject. It's just a fancy on her part.**

**I'm rather more certain about certain herbal remedies. In looking up information for my story, 'You shall yet know', I discovered a whole host of natural substances i.e. herbs and the like which cause miscarriages. There are far too many to all list here, but here are some; Mugwort, Rue, Mistletoe (which you shouldn't be eating in any case, since it's poisonous and is what druids in Celtic times used to drug the human sacrifices just before they 'sacrificed' them, to stop them struggling), Parsley, wild carrot seeds, Motherwort, Wood Sorrel, Fennel…the list goes on and on. In my opinion, expectant mothers should just avoid herbs in the beginning months altogether, just to be on the safe side. Isn't it _fun _what you can find on the internet these days?**

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Not much to do with Phantom in this chapter, I know. Oh well. Review for the half Irish seamstress anyway!**


	19. Corpse Groom

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, or Corpse Bride. I will see Corpse Bride soon, though – I hope. Hope springs eternal. And the it bounces all over the place, trying to get the springs off its feet.**

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musicllover: I never read that one, but I have a feeling I wouldn't like it. Angst, angst, everything's about the angst, isn't it? Or perhaps about the Ankh. (Runs off and reads Terry Pratchett's Discworld books again.) Well, enough of the waiting, here's the next chapter!**

**Rikku Ree: I want this to be real; and so it isn't just about the main characters. The others characters have plenty of angst and problems; they're not just cardboard cut-outs that wear pretty costumes and masks when it comes to Masquerade. Since I am a Catholic, I believe that abortion is wrong, like you. Unfortunately I cannot tell you that, _thank you very much Mominator124. _Don't worry, Erik and Christine are back this chapter; otherwise it would kind of defeat the object of it being a POTO story, wouldn't it? XD to you, too.**

**SimplyElymas: Indeed. Controversiality (Is that a word? Hmmm…) is the key to get attention. Poor Celandine – I've not made life very easy for her, have I? But at least we now know why she was crying all over the place, and not just because she was annoyed at her husband being unfaithful. But she's human, nonetheless.**

**Willow Rose: Who knows what will come of this chapter, now? Well, we must see. Tee hee hee. Come out yet? That sounded _very _wrong. Blessings to you, loyal reviewer of the Scots.**

**Voldivoice: Maybe your Erik withdrawal will be cured with this chapter, my friend. It's true, the Irish should stick together. Which is why the book I'm writing is about how the Irish had a chance at power (in an alternate universe, of course) to challenge the powers of Europe with their own High Queen. But of course, it'll be hard for me to slag off the English. Between a rock and a high place, that's where I am!**

**Chantilly xx Lace: I hoped you'd like it! (Maybe you'll recognise the quotation below from the site.) Other people's stories are important as well – they help explain how people turn out the way they do. But there is Erik in this chapter, I promise!**

**Morianerulz: That's okay, I'm sure it's better than what Gevaisia offered to inform people of if they emailed – an abortion with lemons and vinegar. I wouldn't know, since I have _not _emailed for further information. But check out _Dear Professor Xavier _anyway, it's really good! I liked War and Peace, but it was a bit complicated. What am I saying? _Very complicated. _If it's any comfort, I'm a bit of a home girl as well. I mean, for example, until a few weeks ago, I had never travelled on my own on the tube or on a bus before. Who needs parties, when you can have books? I went to Washington! It's a very cool place! I certainly have heard of Seattle – both 'Sleepless in Seattle' and 'Fraiser'. I must check out that Wheel of Time series. Welcome aboard, my muse! Who needs Thalia when you've got Morianerulz. Lots of people don't like me because I either don't talk (not a good thing) or say _exactly _what I think (which is an even worse thing). But enough of slagging off me; I've got to get on to the next answer.**

**Lydiby: You'd be surprised how murderous squirrels can become – in cartoons, of course (sometimes the only way I can keep sane is when I watch imaginary characters getting squished) but I did once see a thing on an animal program about a squirrel who attacked the little girl who was feeding it, biting onto her face and holding on…ouch. Don't worry, she was fine ! I've never heard of paintings crying. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…Some people have said she should abort, others no. I of course, being Catholic, believe abortion is wrong, but I also believe other people should be free to have their own opinions. Yes, it sucked to be female; being regarded as a sex toy or being ignored, that was basically it for many of them. Politics – doesn't exactly confuse me, but I have to say that our 'dearly beloved' prime minister is a _little_ bit of a squit. I'm glad to see you're on her side, but it's not as easy as that. If Louis found out she'd been unfaithful to him, he'd have a perfect excuse to divorce her so he could visit some sort of equivalent of the Moulin Rouge without any spanner in the works; and if dear old _Grandpére _found out she'd been unfaithful, she'd be cut off from the family and out on her ear, and the rest of the family forbidden to help her – no money, no property, no help from the family, nothing. Women simply couldn't do the things they can do today; it was either become a nun or be like Fantine in Les Miserables and become a prostitute to support the kid. Being disowned was _not a good thing. _I would _love _to say I made it up, but I didn't; I got it from Corpse Bride – appropriate, wouldn't you say? – and also the Chapter Twelve title, from 'there's been a grave misunderstanding'. That would be fun; but hopefully not quite like 'punks' – punk is another word, in Shakespeare, for a prostitute. These little facts are _fascinating, _aren't they? That last bit was what my mum said when I told her. This is going to be _fun._**

**Ripper de la Blackstaff: Hi! That's certainly true about Erik. But, as Leroux's novel says, 'he respects me; he crawls, he moans, he weeps!'…or something like that. True that she stays with him – in theory – to save Raoul; but I thin it's rather noble of Christine, preparing to stay with a skeleton man who would quite readily blow her and a load of other people up if she said she wouldn't marry him, even if he was – eccentric. Then again, she should have been grateful to him for saving Raoul and Nadir, that is true. The thing is, my parents, although they're doctors, were/are special ones. My mum's a radiologist – that means she does x-rays – and so far the only ultrasound I can remember that she did wasn't even on a human, but on a pet dog one of the radiographers brought in – which had ten lovely Labrador puppies, and all survived! My dad, who is now retired since he is way over sixty-five, was a surgeon – I'm not sure what to call an 'all-rounder' surgeon, so I'll call him just that; an all-rounder surgeon – so although he presided over lots of births, I don't know if he's an expert on development of the foetus in the womb. Besides, I'm too busy trying to keep my dinner down when they start talking about past patients and haemorrhages and ruptured arteries and things like that to ask them about such stuff. I am aware I am exaggerating, but I must tell you, I was never so glad as when Lucie decided not to be a doctor – three doctors in the family would have finished me off, I swear it! I was being sarcastic about the throat cutting, but that you already know how to cut throats – that's just creepy. SimplyElymas, apparently, can barge right through a brick wall without being hurt, so I think you'd have your work cut out! I'll think about you helping with Raoul, I promise I will; and I will take you up on that promise about the French, I promise that as well. Indeed Pierre is the kid's father – I personally don't blame Celandine; living with a husband who's not interested in you but loves to go with other women can surely get you just a little down after a while. Erik and Christine are in the lair, where we left them. I believe that abortion is wrong; but I believe that everyone is free to have their own opinion on the subject. And just because a baby will be dirty and noisy doesn't mean you have to kill it. But, each to their own. My gosh, I do give you long replies, don't I? **

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I felt I had to write this chapter; otherwise Ripper de la Blackstaff – to whom, it would seem, I certainly write the longest replies – will keep on pestering me with suggestions of Erik drugging Christine with laudanum and having his 'wicked way' with her while she's out cold – or else keep saying _'Wedding night!'_ in the reviews until I go completely stark staring bonkers. So, enjoy. And, Ripper _dahling – _I dedicate this chapter to you. So be content!****

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The Maiden:  
Go away! oh, go away!  
Wild monster of bone!  
I am still young - go, please!  
And leave me alone.

Go away! oh, go away! Wild monster of bone!I am still young - go, please!And leave me alone. 

**Death:  
Give me your hand, fair and lovely child!  
I am a friend and you have nothing to fear.  
Be of good cheer! I am not savage,  
You shall sleep gently in my arms. **

**Translation of Matthias Claudius, _Der Tod und das Mädchen_ (Death and the Maiden)  
Franz Schubert: op. 7 no. 3, D. 531 (1817)**

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(Yes; I _know _I could have put this quotation at the start of Chapter Sixteen – after all, the title would suit – but it works better here. So sue me.)**

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Corpse Groom

_Don't leave me!_

Christine struggled up from her seat, trying to reach out to the strange, wounded man standing beyond _him_; though she feared him, he was the lesser of two evils – and the only one who could help her…

But then, when _he _spoke, the man was suddenly gone; vanished, as if he had simply been pinched out of existence – as if he had never even existed at all.

_Where is this place, that people walk around with slit throats; that they vanish?_

She sank back down onto the sofa, tears beading at the corners of her eyes. But she wouldn't cry; she _wouldn't_ cry. She must be brave.

_There must be _some_ way to get away._

Her head was aching now. She rested it against the arm of the chaise lounge; closed her suddenly throbbing eyes. Perhaps if she pretended to be asleep, or unconscious, he would leave her alone, in peace?

The footsteps came echoing back, over towards her; they halted. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, breathed carefully; feigning sleep, she fervently hoped.

Then, they moved on again, past her; she breathed a deep sigh of relief, when she hoped he could not hear her.

The footsteps halted; and then a few chords came - beautiful ones at that, but also distinctive; perhaps an organ? – but soft as well; soft enough almost to come from a violin…

The music washed over her, like waves upon a shore. She let them flow into her mind…surely such beautiful music could not be evil…

And then they stopped. And, she realised in a panic, she now had no idea about where he was. He got have gotten up during the last few chords, and stepped away, making use of their fading sound to cover his footsteps.

She couldn't tell where he was now. Perhaps if he breathed, she might be able to tell; but as it was…

There was a smell. It was not unpleasant; not the smell of decay or death. It was simply…age; the smell of old, forgotten rooms, not looked into for years. The smell of years; centuries.

_His _voice poured into her ears. "I know you aren't asleep."

_Go away, _she thought, as loudly as she dared. _Go away. Leave me alone._

"Because," that beautiful, cursed voice went on, quite calmly, "if you were asleep, I am sure your heart would not be beating quite so fast, or so loudly – though for what reason I could not _possibly _guess."

She made no reply, keeping her eyes tightly shut, bunching her fingers into her palms until the skin throbbed from the pressure of the nails.

_Go away. Go away. Go away…_

There was a sigh; it seemed right above her. "They say a single kiss woke up the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood. Do you think that would work here, with our current situation?"

She still said nothing; but a deep foreboding laced with fear was building within her.

_A single kiss…_

And suddenly the lightest, feather dry touch of _something _upon her lips – barely for a instant, and so light she could hardly feel them; but enough for her to gasp and open her eyes and scramble as far away as the furniture would allow her.

He sat back on his heels, and watched her with quiet, satisfied amusement; his eyes upon her face, even though she was perfectly willing to admit, even in this situation, that there was much more for him to look at than just her face. It occurred to her that, however dead he might be, he was certainly more courteous than many of the men she had encountered.

Except Raoul.

At the thought of Raoul, of dear, sweet, kind Raoul, she found the courage in her to look away from _him_. Poor Raoul – how long had she slept? How long had she been here; away from the world? What must he be thinking?

In thinking, her eyes turned to the spot where the other man had been standing; and, because she could not think of anything else to say with _him _watching her so intently, asked, trying to sound nonchalant, "Who was that man?"

His chuckle curdled within her ears. "That man, as you put it, was Nadir. A very _old _friend, you might say. I have known him for a very long time."

"How long?" _I'm lying on a chaise lounge in an underground lair, having a conversation with a dead spirit inside his mortal body, about how long he's known another spirit._

"I really have no idea. Time in the Land of the Dead is very different from time on Earth."

Then for a time there was no noise, none at all; no echo of the water rippling against the sides of the cavern, since the lake, if that was what it was, was completely still; no however miniscule roaring of the candle flames – nothing except her own breathing, and nothing at all from her silent companion. At moments she wanted to speak, if only to remind herself that she was still alive in this silent, foreboding place; yet _he _spoke, and she knew that he was not alive by any means.

But she had to ask…

"Where are my clothes?"

"Somewhere safe."

"Why did you take them?" she asked tentatively, dreading the answer.

He chuckled again; such a dark and yet so soft sound! "I think perhaps you should be thanking me. Riding clothes and a tightly fastened corset are not the best items of clothing to sleep in."

"Perhaps…but I would prefer to be certain that-"

"In case you are worried that I may have seen anything I have never seen before," he cut in smoothly, "do not fret. I kept my eyes occupied on other things while my hands were…occupied in their turn. Rest assured I was not tempted to look."

"Oh…thank you." She was not entirely sure what to make of that. For all she knew, he might be having a quiet joke at her expense. She had only his word that he had done no more than loosen her corset and take off her stockings. God! The thought of him touching her bare skin with his skeletal hands was almost more than she could bear!

And yet…he had said, anything he had never seen before…did that mean, then, that even when he was alive, he had never…? For once he had been a man – still was a man, if you thought about it, and a very attractive one at that. But if the stories about what lay behind that mask were true…

There was another sigh from beside her; and now it seemed twisted from the very bottom of his soul. "No, I have never been with a woman. Quite a confession for a man, wouldn't you say?"

"I…I didn't say anything…" She found herself looking back, uncontrollably, at that terribly beautiful face; aware of what she was going to say and silently screaming at herself for sounding so immature. "Can…can you read thoughts?"

He smiled, almost gently. "No, but I _can_ read faces. I became very good at it in life. The voice says one thing, the face another altogether, even if _they_ think it doesn't. A whole new method of communication, you might say."

"Indeed." She looked away again.

"You hate me." And now his voice was sad; just as it was when he had stated, quite plainly, that she feared him.

And, once again, there was no malice or anger in his speech; only the acceptance of the truth.

But was this the truth? _Do I hate him? _Hate was such a powerful word. She feared him, certainly; but did she feel hate?

He had kidnapped her; dragged her down to the underworld; assumed to call himself her husband…but that might change, if she relied upon his remorse, now, while she had the chance.

Steeling herself for what might come, she turned back to look at him; to look at that beautiful, angelic face; those tawny golden eyes, gazing at her with such misery, and as they met with her own, such hope…

_He has such hope in my turning to look at him…_

But she could not turn back now. She had to tell him, if only for the sake of knowing that she had said it.

"Erik, if that is truly your name…I could only despise you if…if you did not give me my liberty."

The hope died from his eyes and from his face, leaving only an expression as blank as the mask on the other side of his face. Desperately, she went on, speaking more loudly.

"If you did not return me to the world above…to my friends and…and family, only then, only then would I hate you." She faltered, and her voice died away, as a new expression came to the face of him opposite her – she could recall it only too well from what she assumed was the night before.

"And if I did not return you to your precious fiancée as well; is that it?" He no longer spoke gently, sweetly; now his voice was a growl, filled with menace. "You throw me this little scrap of comfort, in exchange for my giving you up? Hardly an adequate bargain, mademoiselle." Abruptly he stood up, and paced away, to stand by the shore of the lake, staring out across the still waters.

But they were no longer so still – they were moving; bubbling; his dark figure, still clad in the white or yellow shirt, stood out against it…

"Why are you so eager to return to his arms?" he shot abruptly over his shoulder – or what remained of it at that precise moment. "What is it about him that so fascinates you?"

"He does not…fascinate me," she admitted, begrudgingly, "but he is kind, and generous, and he adores me." She lost herself for a moment, in the memory of Raoul's smile. "I would not inflict such suffering upon him, in losing me."

He snorted, without looking around. "The de Chagny family have always been very good at getting over heartbreak, I find."

"And how would you know? No, don't tell me, I don't want to know. All I want to do is go home. And if you won't take me – then I'll go myself."

She was up and halfway across the floor before she realised what she was doing, the dressing gown flapping loosely around her, her bare feet stumbling over the floor. But almost at once an arm encircled swiftly around her waist; and yanked her back against a solid if not warm wall; with a thrill of horror that shuddered through her like a blow the skeletal hand went and slightly rested upon her throat – not actually holding it, which she thanked God for, while silently raging at the one holding her. He could restrain her so easily; and she felt so weak and helpless.

"Let me go," she whispered, her voice choked by sudden tears.

"I could not do that." His whisper, seemingly fraught by tears of his own, touched more that just her ears.

"Why not?"

"Because I love you." And again the words were not just words, she felt the full force of the emotion behind them; the passion, the longing.

Gently, irresistibly, he turned her in his grip; pulling her carefully against him; not crushing her to him, but his hold firm enough that she would not be able to break free; she quivered at the feel of his arms around her, the skeleton hand resting in the small of her back...

He was very close now – his face, his lips, were much too close…some of her senses screamed in protest at this; others screamed at the way she was being held, at how close he was; screamed with joy. The world was whirling around her, and she felt blackness overtaking her again – and this time, she would not wake up; there was just too much despair in her, horror, exhilaration…

_Too much blood in the earth…_

His eyes were two stars in the darkness; one shining in the glory of the sun, the other in the brightness of the moon of his face.

"Could you not love me, Christine?"

Was he doing this intentionally? Somehow she did not think so; it was her own self causing this, and she knew that if she did not act in some way then she would fall prey to the intoxication, and never be sober again, or sane at that. She managed to focus on his face – or rather, the white side of his face-

And it occurred to her, in that instant – _he held her firmly by the waist, but he had left her arms free._

She reached up and grasped the edge of the mask, and in the same action ripped it away-

At once the world became clear again, albeit whirling in a different way, as a harsh, animal cry wailed in her ear and as she was abruptly thrust back, away from _that_; and she landed hard on the floor; her head banged against the ground, stars winked before her eyes and a different sort of blackness threatened to consume her; but she gritted her teeth and shook her head and they went away again. She looked up, and _that _came at her again-

She screamed, and struck out with whatever she was holding in her hand; screaming and screaming, and hearing words come into the scream; words spilling out of her disordered, terrified, distraught mind, with no control over them.

"_I will not marry you! I will not stay with you! You are dead! _Dead!_ I will not marry__ Death!"_

After a few moments she controlled herself, and the screams, and became aware that the thing was gone; panting she pushed herself up, at the same time becoming aware that what she had been lashing out with was the mask.

He crouched but a little way away from her, trembling violently, bent over; his hands clasped to and coveringhis face; and now he was almost totally corpse like, his arm and leg fully skeletal, as if he had lost control over himself. At first she thought that she had hurt him when she struck out at him; but then _those _eyes looked over his curled fingers at her, blazing with fury as they had before; and the rest of his face followed suit.

_His face…_

Never had she thought that such a face could exist; it was impossible, unheard of that God could be so cruel – but then again, it would seem that the Devil had more a hand in such a creation than God. It was worse than a wound inflicted in life; worse than any mortal disease or affliction; as if it had come before birth; as if while still in the mother's womb some evil, malignant presence, jealous of the beauty the unborn baby would one day bear, had seized part of the right side of the face and actually _ripped _it off the bones of the skull, taking part of the nose with it, leaving behind what little skin and flesh there was to moulder and fester upon the bone; creating all of death's glory to contrast alongside with the height of the flower of manhood.

But the true horror was not just the death's head, but the eye which glared out of the socket so unnaturally at her; the yellowed teeth under the ruined hole of the nose which now emerged as they were bared in a hideous snarl; and alongside all this was the insane fury which cruelly mangled what had once been beautiful, but was now in anger just as horrible as its macabre counterpart.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. But most of all, she wanted to close her eyes against that sight, forever. She jerked away, her hair falling across her face, her breath coming in sobs; her hands coming up to the face, the cold porcelain of the mask pressing against her face; curling into herself-

"_Oh no!"_ That voice; so distorted by anger and ferocity; like a foul mockery of the sweet purity that had come before! "You must not give up _now!_ You wanted to see; so you shall _see!"_ Hands which were now like iron grasped her by her hair; pulled her head cruelly back to look at him who held her. All around them there was noise; like the inside of a volcano, an inferno. His fingers were entwined in her hair; his horrible dead fingers, the bone raking across her scalp! Her eyes were filled with that sight, that dreadful sight; the fury of his face, his true face, as he howled in the glory of his rage. She struggled and twisted, her legs kicking at his knees; the madness of her horror fuelling her.

_Let me die. Let me die. There can be no horror greater than this…_

To her further terrified dismay, he was no longer howling, like an animal in pain – no, no, he was laughing, laughing like a mad man! And there were words in his laughter! "Yes! Yes, it is true! See, Christine! I _am _a corpse!" And as quickly as the mirth had come, it was gone again; and in its place was despair, lamentation that threatened to drown her, that made her want to stop her ears, if she could, if only to escape from that wild, terrible grief! "Know, Christine; know that I am built up of death from head to foot and that it is a corpse who loves you and adores you, and will never, never leave you!" He pulled her close to him; so close that he might have kissed her, if he hadn't been more in the mood to perhaps kill her. He hissed; she thought she would choke on the death smell.

But his next words, when they came, were quieter; as if all the rage had been boiled out of him. "Oh, Christine. _Why?_ Why did you do it? How could you…"

A sob suddenly escaped him, and abruptly he let go of her hair; she fell back and her head somehow came to rest against something soft - part of the chaise lounge - almost in a sitting position she shrank back, waiting for the next outburst.

But it did not come. It was as if something had broken within him; his golden eyes trembled with tears; and then suddenly he threw himself down, burying his face in the folds of her chemise and dressing gown; the side of his head coming to rest, quite by accident, in her lap.

In another world, another life time, she might have been outraged, terrified by the position she was in; but now…now, all she could do was slowly bring her right hand – the one not holding the mask – to rest upon the disordered hair of his head; feel its softness and the feel of the skin beneath the hairs; her arm lying across his shoulder, and the cloth beneath it, and the shoulder beneath that. Like a mother with a distraught child she simply lay there, half sprawled against the sofa; he in her almost embrace, his body lying half across hers – and yet she no longer felt afraid - her other arm lying almost uselessly by her side, still clutching the mask.

He had gathered the folds of her chemise and the dressing gown to him, and now he was kissing them, she could just see him doing it – simple little kisses, with all the swiftness of kissing farewell with a hand, and all the despair of a dreamer bidding farewell to his dream; and moaning between them. Distractedly she stroked his hair, carefully smoothing it back into its sleek mane, caring not that her fingers were greased with seeming pomade.

His great, strong, heavy frame was quivering in her grasp. She felt a dampness permeate her chemise, but this time it was not because of any involuntary action on her part – it would seem his moans were not moans at all.

Erik, it seemed, couldn't breathe; but it also seemed that he could cry.

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**Ahem. _Don't throw rocks at her!_ Nice fluff – I think – to keep you happy at the end. Quite a lot of that is based on Leroux, mainly because I think that scene was simply so powerful – so much more than Erik singing 'Damn you, you little prying Pandora!' and all that stuff. Why sing at a girl when you can grab her by the hair and shake her? And he's kissing her skirts, like he did later on, after playing some of Don Juan – so sweet! And notice she hasn't closed her eyes now? Yippee! And, you might notice, no burns – just part of his face missing. Yes, this isa definite tribute to Leroux.**

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**Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress. 'Nuff said.**


	20. Teardrops on Roses

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, or Corpse Bride. I do own my computer, upon which I write this. Go figure.**

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musicallover: The Leroux love and comfort, in a sense, is something we all must have. Why? Who knows? It just is. Who can say what goes on in my mind? At any rate, never meddle in the affairs of fan fiction writers, especially the Phantom ones. They're not all that subtle. Probably more Leroux will come – though my Erik is handsome, he is a living corpse after all! Ooo, I _love_ Dracula; it was one of the first gothic books I ever read! And after that I went on to read Gormenghast… Come back to life, so that you may read more!**

**Morianerulz: I'm not sure where I went – I was only five at the time. I remember going to a museum with dinosaurs and space vehicles, and seeing the White House – not much else. You provide me with inspiration, my lovely muse. A beautiful phriendship indeed, maybe. We must see.**

**Chantilly xx Lace: I would never have my Erik be so brutal as to practically rape the one he loves. No doubt it would have been interesting – but now this presents a new aspect of looking at things in their relationship. And yes, it is a relationship of sorts. Poor Erik indeed…then again, if his life was a bed of roses, we wouldn't love him so much, would we?**

**Polly Moopers: Who can say why? Never mind, you're reading them now, aren't you? Thank you indeed for your praise! And, I must say, it is nice to find someone who sympathises with Christine. The idea of 'fruit caking' her to death is interesting. Here is an update for you, fruit caker! I have written for you, as an angel – even though my name means 'princess', but what the heck!**

**Voldivoice: Top of the morning to you! Ah, dear Gatwick airport. Who can deny its charm?...Don't crowd now, one at a time! Umm…I was thinking more of you throwing rocks at _Christine; _but hey, if you want to throw bludgers at me, I won't sue, because you gave me a review! Hey, that rhymes! Imitating Mandarin Chinese, are you? Good luck received and utilized to great effect!**

**Mina: Welcome! I am glad indeed that you like it, and that you like my version of Erik. Yay; there's a new Erik in town. So much angst! And Leroux homage in the kissing of the skirts, indeed. A regular mix up of all the most beloved Eriks' results in he – only some bits got left in the blender. Tee hee. We must see about the last bit, mustn't we? Quite bespelled, aren't you? Enjoy!**

**Mominator124: Indeed. She is rather desperate. I for one wouldn't be too keen on the whole situation myself. I like the thought of this Erik – both attracting and repelling at the same time. Gosh; I'm making things for hard for dear little Christine, aren't I? Stuff to come will be good as well!**

**SimplyElymas: Leroux canon…lovely Leroux! Poor Erik. But it had to come, otherwise there wouldn't be a point to it, would there? And _that _will probably reappear later…**

**CrazyCarl: Maybe I will get it published one day, after I've had my actual books done? Maybe…wow, thank you very much! No one's _ever _said anything like that before…sniff…warnings; the trailer was just a little freaky in the dark, so imagine what the whole of the film might be like! I think it's quite original as well; everyone was doing Beauty and the Beast, and Kates was doing a Labyrinth cross-over; but I believe this is the first Corpse Bride crossover! And probably the last…Join the club in adding to favourites!**

**megumisakura: Keen on capitals, aren't you? Many thanks for the compliment. Updated soon enough for you? **

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So, we've had the meeting, the revelation, the unmasking; are we missing anything?...Possibly the Opera House. Oh well. Can't have everything, you know! What next?...****

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Best and dearest flower that grows,

**Perfect both to see and smell;**

**Words can never, never tell**

**Half the beauty of a Rose –**

**Buds that open to disclose **

**Fold on fold of purest white, **

**Lovely pink, or red that glows**

**Deep, sweet-scented. What delight**

**To be Fairy of the Rose!**

**Cicely Mary Barker**

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The land of tears is so mysterious.

**From The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry**

**Translated by Alan Wakeman**

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Teardrops on Roses

_Tears…_

_So many tears…_

When had he last cried? He had certainly been tempted to cry, if only a little, in the time since he had come down to the underworld, and in the years before that; the Fates knew that he had had plenty to weep at in his existence. But he had never let himself give in, never…

_I cannot…_

When had he last cried…? Really cried; lost all control; broken down completely; hidden his face even more than usual in his sorrow? He was not absolutely certain _when_, at what age; but he was all too aware that the last time he had cried like this, it had been a woman who had been the cause of his grief too, if for another reason altogether.

His beloved! His angel! She had ripped off the mask, his second skin, his protection from the world! Had screamed at him, struck out at him with what had been his protection, but had, for the moment been transformed into her weapon! Had fought and kicked; if she had been able to bite, he would not have put it past her to sink her teeth into his dead flesh without a moment's thought!

"_I will not marry Death!"_

But then again, she had not flinched at his touch when he had practically collapsed upon her – had not shied away from him…had let her arm fall across his shoulder; had stroked his hair, which was more than any other woman had done…save one…

The two might cancel each other out, mightn't they? But that still left nothing. Nothing…

_All for nothing…_

_No! _He could not let himself give in, not now. Even when he had broken down, had buried his face in her skirts, had kissed them, had sobbed, he had not given in; not succumbed to the darkness which he always knew had been there, right on the very edge of his consciousness; and had been evident more than ever in the hellish last while. He had not given in.

_And I will not give in now._

So…she now knew what lay behind the mask. Where to go from here? What to do, what to say? He did not know. For the first time in his long existence, he did not know what to do.

At least he knew that, at the moment, he could not stay with her. She needed time.

And he had promised that he would visit Nadir.

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Where is he?_

Nadir paced along the banks of the river; as far as he could towards Erik's domain before the atmosphere adopted the consistency of tar, and he could go no further, however much he struggled to do so. The fog from the river only a few paces away curled around his feet, perhaps in a futile attempt to claim him; but he paid not attention to it – or at least tried not to. It was hard to do so when he could constantly hear thousands of tiny, miniscule screams in his ears; all minute, but together conspiring to be intensely annoying at least, if not terrifying.

And while it did not terrify, it all both astounded and deeply concerned him. How had Erik done this? All of it? What _had _he done, in the first place? How had he suddenly regained his body? And who was this girl; this beautiful, terrified girl, whom Erik claimed in matrimony?

Of that, he could make a fair guess.

_Where are you, Erik? _

As if in accordance to that silent question, he suddenly heard a splash behind him…

_Splash?_

He quickly turned around from his furious contemplation of the cavern wall, just in time to see a boat suddenly appear out of the swirling mist – or should he say a gondola, or sorts? At any rate, the abnormal mist swirled out of the way for both the boat and its owner, who propelled it through the water as if he had been dong such a thing all his life – and the time that came after it. Not only that, but at one point he took one hand off the pole – as far as Nadir could see, it was the one that alternately whole and skeletal – and made a sweeping gesture; swiftly igniting a torch upon the cavern wall that until then he had not noticed, with a great guttering of flame.

_Always the theatrics, Erik._

Nevertheless, he was thankful for the light – until then, his only light had come from the water beneath the mist, and very weak and convoluted light it had been as well, having to make its way through the screen of subtle references to faces, eyes, mouths…

Another might have thought that the river was another addition of Erik's strange mind, but he knew otherwise; the river was not Erik's invention. It was far older than either of them.

It was disheartening that, after all this time in the afterlife, there were still things he did not know about the place. Especially rather large things like this.

But he did not show any of this concern, as he swiftly approached the boat as Erik grounded it upon the shore.

"So nice of you to join me at last, Erik. Now, would you mind telling me just what this is all about?"

For a moment the other being said nothing, as he carefully laid the pole with which he punted the boat down inside the craft; then swiftly he sprang onto the shore, making Nadir start back.

But the face he turned to him was not the self confident, almost smug face which had been Nadir's last image of him before he had been banished away from the lair. No; all the self-satisfaction was gone, to be replaced with…well, if a sigh could be formed into a facial expression, then that would adequately describe the look on his face.

"Allah, Erik; what has happened to you?"

"Oh, Nadir." With an actual sigh, Erik sank down to sit upon the edge of the boat, staring into nothing – almost nothing. Erik was never one, after all, to ignore his surroundings completely.

"Erik?" He felt as if his worst fears had just been confirmed. What had he _done?_ "Erik, what has happened?" But truly his questions were not completed; what he was unable to say – could not bring himself to utter – was 'What have you done to _her?_'

Erik looked up at him; and now there was the faintest trace of sardonic humour upon what he could see of his features. "If you fear for Christine, Nadir, then fret no more. She had merely been granted a first glimpse of her spouse's face, upon the wedding night – however uninvited."

_Oh, Allah._

He could hardly think of anything to say; words spilled out of him uncontrollably. "She…unmasked you? But how…?" The full impact hit him. _Wedding night? _"Allah, Erik, did you…you _didn't-_"

"What kind of animal do you take me for, Daroga?" Erik spat, his yellow eyes filled now not with quiet sorrow, but with fire. "Do you _dare_ to think that I would hurt her? That I would _force _her?" He paused, then added more quietly, but with no less anger or danger in his voice, "Because if that is what you think, then you are wrong, Daroga. You are so very wrong."

"Well, what am I expected to think? When you suddenly emerge with both a body _and_ a hapless innocent in tow – what is going on here, Erik?"

The other laughed, and sat back upon the boat. "Oh, dear, Nadir. You are _very_ suspicious, aren't you?"

"If I were not, I would not be me, Erik." He drew closer. "What happened?"

There was another sigh, as if wrenched from the very bottom of the soul; then, surprisingly, he began to speak. "After she came to, we spoke for a while. I…I asked her if she could ever love me. She said that only if I gave her liberty back to her."

"Well, I suppose I must be glad that at least you picked a girl with some sense, if for nothing else." There was a pause, where neither of them spoke. "What did _you_ say?"

"I told her that she could not expect me to simply deliver her back into the hands of her fiancée-"

"Her _fiancée?_ So she is already engaged? Oh, that's just perfect, Erik; just _wonderful!_" He half-turned away. _Allah give me patience! _"And yet _you_ regard her as your wife? And what led you to this revelation?"

The glint of the ring on the hand, as Erik raised it, silenced him; if only for a moment.

"Where did you get that?"

"She gave it to me."

"She…_she _gave it to you?"

"Placed it upon my finger, while I was…still in the ground. Said the marriage vows."

_Oh, grief, _he thought, even as he stepped forward to examine the ring. It did not look like a Christian wedding ring; those sorts of rings were plain gold bands and this one had diamonds upon it, many diamonds.

But it had more than an air of a wedding ring about it…

"I think I can perhaps guess who this was originally intended for."

"Can you, Nadir?" came the laconic reply.

"Are you doing this because of her? Or for other reasons?_"_

He knew, as soon as he had spoken, that it was a mistake; for the golden eyes burst with flame again.

"If you were not my companion, Daroga, you would most likely regret that statement."

"How? It is not as if you could _do_ anything to me."

The fire receded, as he chuckled. "_Touché._ I forget sometimes that in this place, threats are of little use."

"But entreaties are." Nadir drew back, to stare at his friend. "Erik, please, listen to me. You cannot keep her down here. It is sinful; it should not be done. She will wilt; will wither away. You cannot do this to the poor child. You _must _let her go."

"I cannot, Nadir." Erik looked away; out across the mist laden river. "And don't start saying I must, because I simply cannot. I cannot let her go."

"Erik, apart from anything else, you are old enough to be her _father, _theoretically if not practically."

"I don't see what that has to do with it."

"I do. You must take her back!"

"I cannot." Again that quiet, stubborn phrase; so infuriating!

"Why not?"

"I love her."

_Oh, Erik._ He hated himself; hated himself for doing this; but it must be done. That poor child left back in the lair should not be subjected to this; and he knew, he _knew_, that this could not work, could not be, should not be.

"Erik, you kidnapped her; took her away from her world, brought her where no living being should come. You expect her to marry you, to stay with you. Can you not see how wrong that is? You say you love her – but does she love you? Don't you see that if you keep her here, against her will, that she will do nothing but fear and hate you always? You cannot do that to her, Erik. You cannot do that to yourself."

Silence once again reigned between them. He thought that he might have made some headway with his companion; and he was about to speak again when he suddenly noticed the brightness around Erik's eye…

The trace of something upon his cheek…

"Erik?"

"What, Daroga?" came the clipped, harsh reply.

"Have you been…crying?"

The other being said nothing for a moment. Then, slowly, a hand came up to the cheek – skeleton fingers monetarily visible, the ring gleaming upon an alternately bony finger – to touch the sticky transparent trail upon the cheek. He bent his head, his hand cradling his cheek.

"It was when she took the mask off," he said slowly, almost as if in a dream. "I screamed at her; she screamed back at me; she hit me; I caught her by her hair; she kicked me; I shook her. Oh, Daroga! If it had been anyone else, I know I might have killed them! But it was her…her! I looked down at her, as I held her; I knew that here was one I might kill – but the thought of it…the thought of it…" He broke off, then continued, his beautiful voice harsher. "I know that it was almost natural, what she did; I do not blame her for it now…and yet then I felt as if…oh, I can't describe it, Nadir. I couldn't take it; I felt like collapsing and I did! I fell to her feet, and kissed her skirts…and I cried. Yes, I cried, Nadir, I admit it! I wept; wept for all that I had lost; all that I could never have."

Suddenly Erik jerked his head up, staring at him; the force of his gaze made Nadir draw back further. "And do you know what she did, Nadir? Listen, I shall tell you! She _did not _flinch away! She did not try to escape any more! No, she just lay there; and let me cry and kiss her skirts, and she…she stroked my hair, Nadir! She stroked it; put it back into place!" He was rocking backwards and forwards now, however slightly. "And when I stopped crying, when I looked up at her, she spoke! She did not scream; she spoke! And…oh, Nadir! Do you know what she said?"

Nadir shook his head, unable to speak.

"She said 'Poor Erik'! That was all she said. 'Poor Erik'. With…with…I don't know _what _it was! And you tell me that I must give her up, Nadir?"

He said nothing, in the face of that vibrant emotion. What could he say? What could he possibly say?

Nothing.

At least, not now.

* * *

Christine had never seen such beautiful roses before.

There were roses in the de Chagny estate as well, to be seen when the ground was green instead of white; but even they could not compare to the flowers which bloomed upon the bushes; great clumps of pink and yellow and red and white; so bright, so luxurious; almost unnatural in their loveliness.

She drew a deep sigh, breathing in the wonderful, dusky scent of the flower that she so loved; a breath she would never be able to take had she been wearing her corset. It was odd, to wear a dress without a corset – she couldn't remember the last time she had done so; certainly not since she was a girl.

It was a relief, she found as well.

And it was strange as well, she also thought, that when she had put on the dress that Erik had given to her – for she had not dared ask for her riding suit back - it had been the first time she had ever dressed alone. Oh, she could certainly dress herself with aptitude – she was not so spoilt that she did not know how to do up buttons and tie ribbons and laces adequately – but ever since she could remember there had always been someone else with her; be it a maid to fasten the back of her pinafores, or Meg or Madame Giry to help her lace up her corset. Ever since she had been born, she had been dressed up; like a doll, a possession.

That was a sobering thought.

But this…dress, fashioned from some type of pale silk, was different. No aid needed to put it on, no corset required to wear it, the sash easy to tie into a bow at the back…it was a very curious garment. It resembled nothing she had ever worn; no style she had ever even seen, but rather a combination of past styles, to create simple but meaningful elegance.

Had Erik designed this? Where had he gotten his inspiration from? And…had he made the designs from life; observing her while she slept?

God, how that thought chilled her! But he had probably simply modelled it upon the size of her clothes. But in that case…how long had she been unconscious, for him to design and make it?

She both wanted and feared the answer to that question; for the moment the fear was greater than the desire; and so she contented herself with examining the roses, which Erik had indicated to her, perhaps knowing how to possibly remedy her desire, before he had left; without a word.

He hadn't said a word since he had wept…not even when she had spoken…

_Poor Erik…_

Perhaps she had meant nothing. She did not know. All she knew was that she was now trapped, for the moment at least, wearing a dress that did not belong to her, in an underground lair, while the master of it was away, taking her only form of escape with her – for she would not go into that water, that so terrified her.

And if he was the master of the lair – was he not the master of her too?

She hated that thought; and squashed it quickly – she could not think of it. She tried to concentrate on the roses; only the roses, which smelt so wonderful, and were so wonderful to look at as well. They were all lovely; but she thought the red ones were the most beautiful. They seemed to have the very colour of blood – so bright, so vibrant-

-and so chilling.

How could they grow underground, so far from the sun, so far from the light? How could they become so luxurious; so widespread; practically spilling out of the large alcove in which Erik had planted them?

And how could it be that though the thorns looked so sharp, so cruel, as she drew near to the plants they never once caught upon nor snagged the material of her dress?

How could they get water? For a moment, she had half a mind to get water for them from the lake; but the thought of coming into contact with the liquid and the mist sobered her giddy thoughts, made reckless by the exquisite scent of the flowers.

Or was it really so exquisite? Now that she concentrated, as she did when focusing on Erik, there was something oddly _wrong _about the scent. Yes, it was delicious; but there was an undertone in it which discomforted and concerned – that was not natural.

_Is nothing in this realm as it seems?_

She drew closer, leaning forward now, the heady perfume of the flowers assailing her senses – but she had another purpose than to enjoy the scent now.

Slowly she reached out; her fingers brushed the petals of one particularly beautiful bloom-

- and she felt the dryness, the thinness; almost like paper rather than petals; fragile, delicate - deceased.

She sank down, to sit beside the bushes; her fingers absentmindedly crushing the flower which had revealed the truth to her. Cruel, perhaps; but then again not so. They, like the one who had planted them, like their master, were beautiful, in a way – but, like their master, they lacked one thing to truly make them perfect.

And that was lost to them, forever.

Why should she have wondered how the flowers could grow, when the truth was so plainly obvious?

_No living thing grows in the Land of the Dead._

She drew away from the bush; fragments of the flower, still as red as blood freshly spilled from the vein, dropped from her fingers to rain upon her gown; like splatters of gore. They quickly slid off the material to land on the ground around her, as she brought her knees up to her chin, and her arms to rest upon her knees; her hair fell down loosely upon her mostly bare arms, the sleeves barely reaching past her shoulders. She hunched into herself, her eyes still upon the roses; so lovely, so pleasant…so dead. All of them dead.

And she did what she had been forcing herself not to do for a very long time, but could not help now.

She cried.

She knew she had plenty of reasons to cry; she was the only living thing in this world of the deceased; she was trapped by _him_; she had no way to getting back to Raoul, to her home, her world, to everyone she loved.

But, somehow, she found herself crying for the flowers – so beautiful, and all for nothing! – and for he who had planted them, knowing all the while that their sweet loveliness mocked him, for no matter what he did, no matter how perfect to look at they became, he could never give them what gave a plant – any entity - true beauty.

_Life._

She curled into herself, hugging her knees; feeling her tears fall from her cheeks and soak through the fabric of the garment, even as Erik's tears had soaked her chemise she didn't know how earlier, and sobbed aloud.

_Oh Raoul! I miss you!_

But Raoul seemed very far away, and long ago now…so distant…so lost…

She gazed at the roses, then buried her face in her knees. She didn't want to see them any more – their deathly beauty reminded her too much of he who had planted them, in such hope and despair…

She cried for Erik. For Erik and the roses.

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Awww. Poor Chris. Let us all weep with her, and Erik, in the raging flood of angst. And let us be cynical with Nadir as well. Hopefully this chapter speaks for itself.Apart from that reference to The Sound of Music at the start - anyone get that? Hope you enjoyed it!****

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Review please; oblige a half-Irish seamstress!**


	21. Wool over eyes

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO or Corpse Bride. Meh.**

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(Eeep! I've heard 'they're taking down stories that reply to reviews! What shall I _do? Help!)_**

musicallover: Pretty and touching, I hope. That's what everyone else seems to think. Ooo, I love Sleepy Hollow! I remember, I was having a night in with Mum and Lucie, and we were eating a Chinese takeaway; and we had rented some DVDs, and I demanded that we play Sleepy Hollow first; and I was gleefully laughing along while Mum _did not look too pleased._ Hee hee hee. With my morbid tastes, my favourite action bit is when the horse man rides down into the tree with Lady Van Tassel, in that great shower of blood. But I like the bit with the 'bewitching me' and Ichabod and Katrina having a big old hug as well. Awww… Thanks for the compliment! I liked Dracula a lot; but I find the later bits a bit boring and hard to understand – I prefer the first half with all the business with Lucy! Chips, y'all! SB.

**Simply Elymas: Awww. Here's a tissue. (Hands tissue.) Oh yes, not sure what to think now. Poor, poor girl. I think those two are a bit like Laurel and Hardy – only with more angst. 'This is another fine mess you've gotten us into, Erik!' Or two of the Marx brothers. 'Hey, Erik! You got a woman in there?' 'She's my sister!' 'Yeah, well I'm her brother! Get her out!' Ha ha ha ha ha. OMG OMG OMG. Ha ha ha ha. (Well I find it funny, even if no one else does. Guess that means I watch too much Laurel and Hardy, and _A Night in Casablanca._)**

**Chantilly xx Lace: Yeah, I wanted to make their relationship be a little different from other ones written; Nadir is sort of a father figure to Erik – since he's been dead for far longer – and Erik's sometimes the annoying kid brother; yet at the same time they're like brothers, sharing in their pain and loss, even if Nadir pretends he's given his up – because, remember, Nadir was betrayed and murdered as well. I love Leroux – making you cry so much! But musical and movie has such good tunes! I love 'em all!**

**Morianerulz: Oops. (Kicks self.) Ouch. Oh well, like you said, easy mistake. America's such a confusing place. I remember Bob Hope said that Central California is 'where the fog from San Francisco comes down to sneer at the fog from Los Angeles.' Not that I'd know. Good chapter indeed. Here is more for you!**

**Voldivoice: I've been to both. Going over to Ireland at least two or three times a year – up until I was about twelve, when Grandfather died, so we didn't have so much incentive to go over any more. I led a pretty sheltered life too. I've never even taken the bus to school – not that I can at Epsom College, the bus service they employ doesn't go anywhere near my house. And I told my parents 'You want me to go to a school that lasts until six and includes Saturday lessons, you're going to have drive me there or nurtz.' All right, I didn't say nurtz. I never really say nurtz in my day to day conversation. Let's keep those things unmentionable, shall we? Ec goodness suffices for vitamins? Could go to Land of the Dead – or to heaven, perhaps? 'Between a rock and a high place is in fact a real place – in Lancre in the Terry Pratchett books. I'll write as fast as I can. I know what's going to happen, but I've still got to write it down. Nuts. Luck to you, from the divine seamstress.**

**Kat097: Sheer dumb luck. Or maybe I've had previous lives, so I could practise my writing over the hundreds of years. Maybe I was Mary Shelley in a past life – that would certainly explain my tendency to read Gothic stories and be depressed and have weird dreams, though maybe not my aversion to surgical tendencies. Honestly; we must be the only family in Surrey to eat dinner while watching an operation on some poor person's stomach and spleen. Not in real life, on the TV. _Yurrrgggh… _- if I believed in reincarnation. Maybe I do; I don't know. And you _are _good at writing – or have you forgotten to check the number of people who have you on their alerts and favourites lists – me, for one! Forgiven yet?**

**Lydiby: I know what you mean. A few days back I really thought our internet connection was going to pack up. Eeep! We shall have to wait and see about the happy ending, shan't we? As that woman who shot herself in the head in Desperate Housewives said, 'Not all of us can have a happy ending.' Or something along those lines. I cannot say anything on that particular subject – otherwise it'll just ruin everything. I know what you mean; I have zero tolerance for the boys in my year. That may be because I have a bad temper sometimes; at any rate they tease me. All I did at one point was say I would rather eat glass than kiss a certain boy – kind of as a joke – and they held onto that and _would not let it go. _Grrr. Curse them! Curse them! I wish Celandine could have gotten away as well – I've made a real rat out of Louis, haven't I? I'm feminist as well; and I weep for our generation – though I haven't died my wardrobe black yet; apart from my favourite t-shirt, it makes me look peaky. But good for you! Good for anyone who wants to be different! As Avril Lavigne said in one of her song lyrics, 'I'd rather be anything but ordinary.' I like Les Mis; I've never seen the actual show, but we've got a video of when they did the tenth anniversary at the Royal Albert Hall. My favourite songs are 'Master of the House' and 'I dreamed a dream'. But the Lovely Ladies just scare me. Well done to whoever played Valjean; I'm certain he deserved it! I'm a bit tired too, but I must go on. Writing, I mean.**

**Mina: Yes, poor Erik. I'm subjecting everyone to torture. Well, if it was all phluffy and nice, would you read it? Maybe…my mother says you can get used to anything after a while; and it's surprising what love cane help to overcome. I'm not saying it will be love – we must see how the story goes. Shows you are devoted to your little phantom, that you want a happy ending for him. There's quite a lot to go, so it won't be finished soon, I'm afraid…moo ha ha ha.**

**Willow Rose (or Lady? Hmm…something to think about…): In certain frames of morbidity, sometimes it is not possible to have a happy ending. Tough, but true. Of course, I'm not saying that's not going to happen here…but we shall see. At least we can be comforted by one thing…we know Erik won't die. The fact that he is already dead is entirely beside the point. Blessings to you, loyal reviewer of the Scots.**

**Erik'sTrueAngel: All you need is love…love is all you need….yayness! **

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This chapter is dedicated to my precious, precious elder sister, Lucie; who, having gotten the adequate A level results, is eligible to attend university in September; who is a truly remarkable young woman in every single way, and who also compels me to eat her scones.****

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Promises, like pie crusts, are made to be broken.

**Proverb**

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Wool over eyes

It was the sound of crying that woke Cecile up from her dozing. She had been roused more than once by the sound of the Mademoiselle moving around next door; and now, when it had seemed that she would get some sleep after all, that crying had started. Not full out tears; just quiet sobs; and somehow that was worse.

It was horrid; lying there and listening to Mademoiselle crying on the other side of the wall, so close as if she were in the same room as her. She sounded as if she was in pain; as if she had hurt herself; and it hurt to listen to her. Every time there was a pause between sobs, and she hoped and hoped that it was over, that she had fallen asleep, her hopes were dashed when another one came, tearing at her ears and making her want to cry as well.

But she hadn't been like this before. No; Mademoiselle had certainly never behaved like this; never cried at night; never sobbed as if her heart were breaking. She understood about crying at night – she had cried a little every night for two weeks when she started in her first placement, before she came here; and she knew that one didn't simply start crying in the night for no reason.

Well, there was a reason – it was because you didn't want to risk anyone else seeing. She understood that as well.

So what had happened?

Of course, she could simply go and check on Mademoiselle…just to see that she was all right…

But then, that would be encroaching upon Mademoiselle's privacy; Mademoiselle had expressed the desire not to be disturbed. She could get into trouble for doing just that. She had worked long and hard to become a lady's maid – to earn the right to keep her hands soft and free from dish water - and she wasn't about to give it all up.

But on the other hand, Mademoiselle did sound very upset. And she didn't want to be accused of neglecting her in her time of need.

And it wasn't as if she was going to get any sleep tonight any way.

In fact…

_Oh, blast._

Silently cursing herself and shivering, she slipped out from between the covers of her warm bed; feeling for her shawl she wrapped it around her shoulders, pulled her dark plait to rest over one shoulder; then fumbled for the matches and the candle on her bedside table – no oil lamp for her! The first match broke; but the second one flowered into flame; she lit the candle and stood up from her bed in one motion. Then, as quietly as she could, she picked up the candle, its sparse light revealing little of her surroundings, but enough to ensure she didn't trip over anything, and swiftly made her way to the door that adjoined with Mademoiselle's room.

A simple matter of carefully, gently unlocking the door with the key fastened around her wrist – all the doors of Mademoiselle Daaé's room were locked at night, and the window too – though that was not surprising, in this weather – just in case she took up her old habit of sleepwalking, which she had apparently had when she was a child. She made sure the key was fastened firmly around her wrist again before she put her hand on the door handle, twisted it; and the door softly opened.

Even as it did so, she was silently screaming at herself. _What on earth am I going to _say?

But it was already too late; she could do nothing but step forward into the dark, silent room – very dark, and almost completely silent. Some other person might have suspected that the silence was that of one who slept; but she knew, by instinct, that it was rather that of one who was pretending to be asleep.

"Mademoiselle?" she asked tentatively, shielding the light of her candle with her other hand; the even sparser light barely outlining the bed and its occupant, a few paces away. "Mademoiselle Daaé…are you all right?"

There was no answer from the shape in the bed. She hadn't expected one; and had half hoped that this apparent sign of slumber meant she could scuttle off back to bed, and try to get back to sleep, and wake up in the morning just a maid; not someone trying to comfort and help her mistress.

But she couldn't do that. For one thing, the Mademoiselle could not have cried herself to sleep so _very_ quickly. Something was amiss.

"Mademoiselle?" she tried again, taking a step closer, and then another. "I just…I heard you crying, and I was worried. Is something wrong?"

Again, no answer. _Please, please just let her be asleep. _But she couldn't just leave now, not after having come in and spoken in such a way. If the Mademoiselle was not willing to talk, she at least had to see if she _was _asleep.

As quietly as she could, she drew up to the bed. Was she facing this way, or the other side of the bed - or even lying on her front? No; she was certainly facing the other way; that was easy to see, even if she had pulled the covers over her head – strange behaviour, even in this cold weather! - but she didn't need to see her face to check if she slept.

Cecile leant forward ever so slightly, to see if she could hear breathing. The breaths that came from beneath the covers were deep, and fairly even; but there was something…odd about them. As if the one breathing was thinking about breathing in such a way, rather than just doing it naturally in their sleep.

"I'll…I'll just leave you, then," she muttered, as she drew back. But as she did so, for a moment she drew her hand away from the candle; and the full light shone upon she in the bed. She bit her lip, even as she swiftly covered up the light again. Surely that would wake her!

But…

For that single moment, the light had shone upon hair that glinted gold…

As if in a dream, Cecile reached forward again, and grasped the bed covers firmly in her hand, and pulled them away and off the _somebody_.

And even before she gasped and twisted around, she knew that the occupant of the bed was a quite a different Mademoiselle from the one she had expected.

_

* * *

It's all over, Meg thought, as she stared up into Cecile Jammes' face, filled with confusion. She knew Cecile was sometimes taken to be a bit simple; but even she could not fail to understand the situation; and to act upon it._

Btu as she looked up, tremblingly, into Cecile's face, she saw that the other girl, who was only a little younger than her, did not understand. She did not understand at all.

"Mademoiselle Giry? What are you doing in here? And where is Mademoiselle Daaé?"

She opened her mouth, but could think of nothing to say. What could she say? _How _could she explain this?

_Curse you, Christine! _she thought savagely.

"Mademoiselle? Is she in the other room?" Cecile nodded at the doorway at the far side of the room, which lead to her own room.

She considered, and then decided on the truth. It gave her a little sense of satisfaction in disobeying Christine's request, after all the trouble she had put her through; and after all, things couldn't get any worse, could they?

"She is not here at all, Cecile."

"_What!"_ The maid drew swiftly back from the bed, to the door, nearly dropping her candle in her shock. "What do you mean-"

On second thoughts, maybe they could. Swiftly she leapt up and rushed forward and jammed her hand over the other girl's mouth mouth; grasping the candle in her other hand – the last thing they needed was a fire. "Wait, listen to me…"

And then froze, as she heard a noise from outside Cecile's room.

Cecile had frozen as well; their eyes were locked, as they listened fearfully for anything else; fixed in a struggle like two statues.

Another noise came. And another.

Footsteps.

Someone was walking along the corridor outside.

Meg didn't dare to move. She hardly dared to breathe, as she listened to the footsteps slowly make their way along the line of the wall, but a little way away from them. Who would walk along the corridors at this time of night? And why?

And had _they_ heard?

She both wanted and feared the answers to all those questions.

Cecile's dark eyes, lit up by the candle flame, were wide with terror; her wrist trembled under Meg's fingers. Meg wanted to blow out the light, or something, if only not to give any more notice of their wakefulness; not to attract attention; not to bring enquiries and unwanted revelations. But she didn't dare move.

For a heart stopping instant, the footsteps paused, seeming to her right outside the door on the opposite side of the room; but then they moved on, further down the corridor – and then, they were gone. But Meg didn't dare move or speak, until she counted to a hundred. Then, still breathing deeply, she slowly released her hold on Cecile's wrist and mouth.

Cecile too was still cautious, even as she repeated her question in a whisper.

"I don't understand, Mademoiselle Giry. If Mademoiselle Daaé is not here – then where _is _she?"

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So…

Little Daaé was missing from her bed – and from the house. Who knew where? Not Little Giry; that was for certain.

But this might work to an advantage.

A very good advantage indeed.

_If_ it worked.

This was going to be _entertaining._

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Oooo! More mystery! Sorry for the general shortness and boringness of this chapter. Never mind; both E and C next chapter, I promise!

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Read and review for the half Irish seamstress, please!


	22. Fire from Heaven

**Disclaimer: I do not own Poto, or Corpse Bride, or blackberry ice-cream. Trust me. Wait and see and you'll know what I mean.**

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musicallover: It seems everyone is getting into this story! Morbidity is fun! Can't tell you who the person was, though. Mystery! Here is your spoiling chapter!**

**Erik'sTrueAngel: Quite a lot. Apart from a skeleton arm. Heh heh!**

**CrazyCarl: Mystery and suspense is just what I am aiming for in this, I hope. More for you!**

**Willow Rose Mysteries are the best. They are what makes life interesting. Here is more! Blessed be from your half Irish author!**

**SimplyElymas: Caught anything yet with your breath? Heh heh, just my joke. Enjoy!**

**Lydiby: Ooo, I feel for you! How potentially terrifying! No problems about no comments; they're not everything in life, you know!**

**Polly Moopers: Well, don't worry – so long as you enjoy them. Cliff hangers make it so much more interesting, don't they? Are we talking about Erik or Raoul as the wrong man? Loveliness continues!**

**Mystery Guest: Wow, thanks for the long review! I'm glad you like my characters; I try to make them believable. I thought; why not show what might have made Carlotta into such a cow in the first place? I am also _very_ glad you agree with me on the whole Christine and Corpse Groom thing. Finally, someone who doesn't think they should hook up and have little zombie babies! Ahem, sorry Ripper de la Blackstaff. Aw, wasn't that bit fluffy? Hey, you have to have the fluff. That's what cushions you when you fall to the earth with a bump. I think _everyone's_ a little bit insane, if only a _very _little. Some people are just better at hiding it than others. Tee hee. We shall have to see about the pairing, and what happens to the characters! So let's not waste much more time on the replies, shall we? Here is your update. **

**Mominator124: Silly – but too much fun to leave out. 'They seek her here, they seek her there; they seek Miss Daaé everywhere! Is she in Heaven? Is she in Hell?' well, funny you should say that – I mean because they're under the ground, not because they're actually in Hell or anything. It will indeed be very interesting, as we shall see. Chips to you, Barb.**

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So, yep, more E and C. What can I do? I must write; for that is the means of my salvation!****

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Dedicated to Mademoiselle Phantom, for her wonderful story 'Cold Unfeeling Light', and because she 'absolutely'. What she 'absolutely's I don't know; but I am playing along the lines that it's good. Ha ha, only kidding Mademoiselle!**

'**I have shed my tears…and yet my heart is not broken. Do you think me wicked?'**

**Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow**

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Fire from Heaven

'_Don Juan Triumphant…'_

If she didn't know better, she might have thought that the words on the frontispiece of the manuscript, placed so carefully by the seat of the organ, written in a curling, flowing script, were escribed in fresh blood; they were such a bright, crimson red.

She automatically reached out a hand to touch the parchment before her; like a naughty child attempting to touch a candle flame despite all the scolding of their nurse, whose back was now turned.

And stopped the action as abruptly as the nurse seeing the danger in time, and seizing the wicked child's fingers away from a painful roasting.

Only this time the nurse was nowhere, except inside her own head.

She couldn't simply do what she wanted, now that she had no one to stand guard over her. For all she knew, everything in this lair was dangerous, to more than just her health. And she couldn't assume that she would just wake up and it would all turn out to be a rather violent dream. She had given up that hope a long time ago.

This was a new world; and the only thing which would save her from harm would be herself; the only thing she could hope to rely on to save herself would be her own self-control.

So; no more crying fits. No more breaking down; otherwise it would all break down, and she would be lost forever.

And no more concerning herself with that which she should have no desire to do so anyway.

So she withdrew her hand; backed carefully away from the manuscript, averting her eyes from the crimson lettering.

_But it's just _begging_ to be read! I can feel it!_

_All_ _the more reason to keep away from it, then._

She turned her back on it; walked away; sat down on the ledge upon which the organ had been constructed; gripped the stone in her hands, and resolutely kept her gaze away from what lay behind her, on the table by the organ stool.

She looked out over the water instead.

It had changed, since she had last looked at it – she couldn't remember when, and she didn't want to. The light from the water seemed to have died; now all the light that there was seemed to come from the strange mist, which danced across the surface of the water, and sometimes seemed to be doing something far more grotesque than a simple dance.

_Can you drown in the Land of the Dead? _she wondered idly, as she absentmindedly kicked her heels against the stone of the ledge, feeling the tapestry which covered the stone beneath her bare feet. Since someone; anyone, who - she couldn't really say 'lived', so she would improvise with 'resided' - here didn't exactly need to breathe, the point of water as a means of taking away life was no longer an important factor.

_What is it for, then?_

Running water…the old legend that the dead could not cross it…perhaps there was more to that legend than mere superstition…perhaps the river, or lake or whatever it was, was not simply an illusion of Erik's fancy, but actually there for a purpose?

_In that case, what is it keeping in?_

_Or keeping _out?

Suddenly, she was very glad indeed for the water surrounding her, even though she felt she could well do without many of the things she was able to occasionally see in the distant mist. For the images, however gruesome they were, could not leave the water – and the water itself might be taken as a barrier of sorts against any – undesirable _things._

_But _he _has found a way to get across it._

As if in accordance with that thought, she suddenly heard it – or rather felt it - a subtle change in the texture of the air, or perhaps the silent sound of the water…the sound that denoted something was approaching.

_He's back._

At once the hairs on the back of her neck rose; but she couldn't let herself be terrified again. _Not again._ No more weakness, or otherwise she would never escape. No more feeling sorry for herself. She had to be brave. As brave as she could be. And that started with her captor; she couldn't let him find her in this position; kneeling among the remains of a ruined rose, her eyes red and sticky with old tears. If she was to be kept here, then at least she should compose herself with some kind of dignity.

So, she slipped off the ledge, and stepped out onto the sandy shore; clasping her hands piously in front of her, but keeping her head well and truly up.

_No more fear now._

Still, she could not resist a shudder as the boat silently slid out of the rapidly thinning mist – not even the faintest splash to give an impression of normality – and the figure within the craft became more and more visible; and unconsciously fixed her gaze upon the mist beyond the boat.

"Christine."

It was a statement, rather than a question, and both of them knew it. She kept her eyes on the mist, and did not even look around when she heard the boat grinding up onto the shore, or the crunch as he stepped out.

_No sound. Except when he walks and talks, he never makes a sound._

There was a sigh, from quite close by.

_And when he sighs, _she corrected herself.

"What are you looking at, Christine?"

"The mist," she replied, still resolutely not looking at him, secretly delighting in her triumph.

_See? I don't need to be afraid of you._

He made no reply; instead his footsteps crunched away.

_But isn't that what he wants? For me to no longer fear him?_

_Oh, blast._

She sighed inwardly. Though she didn't look round, she still could not help guessing what he was doing. She heard him walk up the steps, shed his cloak, the sighing ripple of fabric betraying that particular action; cross over – she reasoned – to the organ…there was a pause…

"Well, well. It would appear that my manuscripts have attracted some interest…wouldn't you say, Christine?" There was hidden mirth in his voice.

_Oh blast, _she thought again, even as she resolutely did not turn around, even now. How did he _know?_ She hadn't even _touched_ the strange parchment, much as she had had the desire to do so.

"Would you care to come and see it again, Christine?"

_Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him…_

"Since it evidently fascinated you _so,_ earlier?"

Did he read her thoughts or some such thing? She bit back a retort, but turned around nonetheless – after, she could not really do anything else – and stalked towards and up the steps-

-and, since she was deliberately not paying attention to where he was standing, nearly into his outstretched arm; the right one, fortunately, the sable leather clad fingers curled invitingly, calling her to take it.

She studied the hand for barely a second – well, it was not the first time she had held his hand, and at least there would be leather between her and _him_ – and reached out her own hand accordingly.

But as soon as they were close enough to touch, she found herself hesitating for the merest instant. It was the first time she had touched him voluntarily, apart from taking off the mask, and he would surely know that – would he take advantage of this in some way? It would not surprise her if he did.

_For goodness' sake! It's only taking his hand; it will not kill you. And if he is the gentleman he appears to be, he will not use it as an excuse for his own means._

So her fingers met the leather of his glove.

At once his fingers closed about hers; and gently, irresistibly, he was leading her up and towards him – and unlike the last time, she was fully aware of what was going on, and aware that her own gaze was now locked with his, instead of fixed upon something else. _Damn. _

But it was only a few steps; and then just as swiftly he released her hand, and turned back to the manuscript. And now that she was paying full attention to it, she could see what had betrayed her; a few fragments from the rose had evidently been left upon her hand, and had fallen off to land upon the title page of the manuscript, practically upon the letters; giving the impression that _Don Juan Triumphant _had truly been written in blood – and that the pen holding the liquid of life had leaked.

The new found morbidity of her mind was truly beginning to disgust her. She turned her head away.

"Did you read it?" came Erik's voice, practically in her ear. She almost jerked away, before remembering that he was standing a few paces away.

"No," she replied flatly. How could she have ever wanted to do so? It looked almost as morbid as the one to whom it belonged. Though she had to admit, Erik was beginning to look more and more normal…

_You're forgetting._

"It is just as well. I have a…preference, not to let people see my compositions, until they are quite finished. Even Nadir has not been allowed a glimpse."

"Indeed." Her speech was a mere nothing; non-committal, or inquiring. She fixed her eyes upon an elaborate candlestick, a few feet away. "How long have you worked upon it?"

"I began this work ten years before my death," came his reply at once, with the obvious instant recollection of one who has thought of little else over a vast period of time, "and ever since I died, as well."

_That long?_ Unconsciously, her eyes darted back to him. "That long?"

"Indeed." He fired her word back at her, shaped by a wry smile.

"And you still have not finished it?"

"No."

She considered this for a moment. "You must have worked at it as seldom as you could, then."

Erik actually laughed! "Well, I was a little hindered! When I first came down here-" As he spoke, he gestured at their surroundings, implying what 'coming down here' meant - "I had to copy it all out again, word for word, note for note – and that took much time indeed."

"Dying must have been a great inconvenience, then."

"It did set me back years," he agreed; and if he noticed the slight hint of sarcasm she had employed – which he almost certainly had, he was by no means a fool – he did not show it. He reached out and – almost caressed the pale parchment, gently brushing the pieces of petal off the page. "When I began to write it, I believed that I measured out my life span in the notes that I wrote and composed; in the music that I created. I fancied that when I had finally finished my work, the greatest work of my life, my _life_, I would take it into my coffin with me, and I would close my eyes forever." He smiled again, but now there was no mirth in him. "I would suppose that you would call my situation ironic – some might call this," and he gestured around him again, "my coffin – yet _Don Juan Triumphant_ is nowhere near finished. Perhaps if I finish it now, then I might finally sleep forever."

He looked so mournful as he spoke, that she could not help saying, in an attempt to comfort him, despite her previous resolution, "Would you play me something from it?"

For an instant his golden eyes seemed to shine with an eager light; but then the fire was gone, to be replaced with emptiness – and flatness.

"Do not ask me that. You must _never _ask me that." And with that, he turned away.

"But why?"

Erik's great shoulders shuddered. She thought at first that he would not speak; but she waited.

And then he said, softly, "Because Don Juan burns, Christine. He burns; and yet he is not struck by the merciful fire from Heaven." He sat down heavily upon the seat in front of the organ, as if there was a sudden great weight upon his shoulders.

_But you desire something other than the fire of Heaven to ease your pain._

Christine felt her heart melt within her.

_Be strong. Be firm. You must be ice hard._

But he was so sad; so lost!

_He kidnapped you, to make you his wife. He is a living corpse; an abomination._

She knew that all too well. Yet he had been a man once; was _still_ a man. And she could not stand by and say nothing, while he was in such evident pain.

A deep well of pity rose up in her heart for this being – this man, who, in his own words, existed now only within his tomb, forever.

_Keep away! You must not do this!_

But she had to do something; anything.

For if she did not, then she simply would not be Christine, not herself…

Slowly, ever so slowly, she made her way forward; the rustle of her skirts now making the only noise.

Erik's head was bent, supported by his hand, the other clasping his knees – but he was not so sunk in his own contemplation that he was not able to watch her, out of the corner of his eye.

She stopped a few inches from him; grasping the keyboard she carefully lowered herself to the ground beside him, her skirts pooling onto his feet. She let go of her hold; and reached out with the same hand, looking up into his golden eyes; his blank, beautiful half face.

Her fingers met the cloth of his sleeve. She could feel the strength of the muscle there; but also the sparseness of the bone, seemingly at the same time. Her hand rested and stayed; not daring to grip, but courageous enough to remain.

"Erik…would you play me something else?"

And she marvelled that there was no fear, for the moment, there in her voice; no cynicism, no resentment. Internally she raged at herself; but she knew there was no undoing what she had done, now and in the time beforehand.

_Once the fire of Heaven has been unleashed, there can be no second thoughts about its direction._

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Her fingers, upon his sleeve._

The merest feather touch, it reached beyond flesh and bone; to his very spirit, and to the very strata and core of that.

_She called me Erik…willingly…without fear…_

"I would, if you could survive on poorer fare for the moment, Christine."

Regrettably, he had to take his sleeve away from her fingers, as he arched his fingers over the keys. He didn't know what he was playing; couldn't even remember its name. When he had Christine beside him, nothing else mattered.

He risked a glance sideways and down. She was sitting quite contentedly beside him, for the moment; her whole face shining with admiration.

For him. _Him._ No terror, no possible hate or resentment. She was so beautiful…

And never more so than when she smiled, however unconsciously.

_It's a start._

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Yay; more fluff for you lot out there who like fluff and stuff! Sorry to all those of you who don't. So; we have Christine feeling sorrier for Erik. But don't all you E/C shippers cheer and throw your hats, if you're wearing them, in the air. Just because she's overcome her instinctive and understandable nervousness for a moment doesn't necessarily mean she's willing to fall on him in fair frenzy.**

**Quite a bit of the dialogue is taken from Leroux. Go on, try and guess them. Dare you!**

**Well, I won't be updating for a few days, since I'm off to _Venice _on Thursday!Yes, we're visiting the City of Masks again – the last time I went, I was eight, so I can confidently say it was half a lifetime ago. I can't wait to revisit all the mask and glass shops; and our favourite restaurant last time we were there, and eat blackberry ice-cream. Seriously; you can get blackberry ice-cream in Venice; and in Italy as well, I suppose. Not sorbet, ice-cream. I long to taste it again.**

**So, as the Italians say – and as a lot of little glass ants set up on a shop counter are arranged to spell – _Ciao for now! _(The ants just spelled 'Ciao', not the 'for now' bit. Neither do the Italians say it. But you already knew that, I'm sure!**

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Review for the half-Irish seamstress, who will be in Italy until next week!**


	23. Feast

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO, or Corpse Bride – it's coming out soon, so I'll see it though! – or any myths and legends. Which is a shame, because I like them a lot.**

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Bonjourno, everybody! Here I am, back from Venice, with a tan – of sorts – bearing witness to my holiday, as well as a glass pen and a nice little mask and some postcards to hang on the wall. I was seriously not expecting for it to be so hot in Venice; I ended up taking showers at least twice a day _and _washing my clothes in the sink; and being forced to watch MTV all day, since tht was the only channel with some English on it. Plus my taste got a severe knock, since I liked our room but Lucie didn't, she said it looked like something out of a 'bordello' – look that up if you don't know what it means. Which says a lot about my taste. And back to school on Monday! But at least I'll get to wear black this time. I've worn brown, bright blue and navy blue, but never black.**

**I really, really want to do shout-outs for all my nice reviewers – but alas and alack, the rumour that replies to readers' reviews has gotten me scared, and I am a bit of a coward, I must admit – I don't want to lose this phic. So, until further notice, I daren't risk shout-outs. _Oooo_; curses on whoever thought up that ban! A pox on them! But I feel I just have to say this bit to Ripper…A _single kiss woke up the Sleeping Beauty in the wood…_what do you think brushed her lips now? Heh heh heh.**

**So, more E and C for you lucky lot – not necessarily E/C yet…**

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I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one side of the great fireplace, leaning against the stone-work, made a graceful wave of his hand to the table, and said:**

'**I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I trust, excuse me that I do not join you; but I have dined already, and I do not sup.'**

**Bram Stoker's Dracula.**

…**.Back to the Thicket slunk**

**The guilty Serpent, and well might, for Eve**

**Intent now wholly on her taste, naught else**

**Regarded, such delight till then, as seem'd,**

**In Fruit she never tasted, whether true**

**Or fancied so, through expectation high**

**Of knowledge, nor was Godhead from her thought.**

**Greedily she ingorg'd without restraint,**

**And knew not eating Death…**

**John Milton, from _Paradise Lost_**

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Feast

Nadir sat back in his chair, and gazed thoughtfully at the opposite wall of his study – his abode was not nearly as elaborate or ornate as that lair created out of Erik's fanciful, slightly twisted mind. At least here he knew that everything was as it seemed; that he could retreat here after the strangeness of Erik's shadowed palace.

But he cared not for all that he accumulated, by long hard work and diligence, in the years since he had come down here, and been forced to make a new existence for himself. No, he let his mind drift back to that conversation with Erik, on the bank; and the memory of the poor young woman – _Christine,_ the name spoken with such reverence by Erik; with reverence that any other man might have reserved for the Almighty himself – trapped, in the lair under the earth.

_Poor girl…_

And he thought, too, of Erik; of his new form – he still had no idea of how he had managed to reunite himself with his body.

_Unless…_

He focused on the walls of his study once more; lined with row upon row of books. In life he had yearned for knowledge above all else; and this desire had never receded even in death. The scope of his library went beyond mortal scope; stored in here were books beyond even the wildest dreams of any antiquarian, librarian, collector or any person whose first love was the written word, stored in pages and bound with leather.

And somewhere in there, surely, was the answer to his questions – and the solution to the dilemma; the book which would provide the answer to everything. He knew it.

Now, if he could only find it…and he must find it, and soon. Erik had to be persuaded to release the girl, she had to be returned to the world of the living. Who knew the torments going through the minds of her nearest and dearest; who knew for how long she had been missing in her true world?

And though Erik had sworn that he would never harm Christine, who knew what the young innocent herself was suffering?

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In fact, the young innocent was at that moment suffering from the pangs of the extreme temptations of hunger.

Christine could not take her eyes off the elegant bowl piled high with fruit, easily within arm's reach on the table at which she now sat, easing her aching legs after so much time kneeling at Erik's feet. Despite her promises to herself, and her behaviour so far towards Erik, she was a child yet again; her eyes wide with joy at the sight of such treasures.

Apples which gleamed a bright, deep red with health and beauty; peaches, plump, pink and as big as her two fists put together; grapes like large, swelling ovals of mauve wine, begging to be crushed and burst between the fingers so that their juices might be released – all her favourites! Fruits certainly out of season – but then again, when did season matter here?...

And a pomegranate…the golden brown skin shining in the candle light like the metal itself…her breath caught in excitement as she saw it; she had only tasted its fruit once before, when she had been much, much younger – all the good things seemed to happen when she was younger – and her father had split the skin for her, exposing the ruby red seeds, shining like the jewels they resembled; and tasting like mouthfuls of liquid sunshine.

At once her hand reached out, again like a child, in ecstatic expectation, to grasp the beautiful fruit; to split the skin, to reveal the gloriously red flesh beneath-

And once again, she stopped short of actually touching the flesh.

_This is becoming something of a habit._

Erik, on the other side of the table, his arms crossed, was watching her intently; sitting back apparently at his ease, but his golden eyes, the same colour as the skin of the fruit, fixed upon her – and especially somehow seeming to take in both her face and remain fixated on her hand, still reaching out for it.

"Will you not take it? You _are _hungry, are you not?"

_Not as hungry as you might wish._

But she only coughed, then said - quite calmly she thought, considering the situation - "I believe I can think of a story which comes to mind, in such a circumstance."

"You do?" He could not have been more suave, more relaxed; his voice showing no betrayal of the intensity in his eyes.

"The legend of how winter came to the world. How Persephone was stolen by Hades, and how she was tricked into eating the pomegranate, so that she had to remain beneath the earth."

"Oh, that tale. Yes, I know it well enough. I believe I once made a sketch of Persephone's abduction by her dread lord." He paused, as if thinking whatever thoughts went on in that strange head of his. "Not a very _good_ one, mark you; but I was still quite young at the time."

She stared balefully at him, or as balefully as she felt she could manage at the moment. He burst into laughter; his golden eyes closing and turning away from her, so that she could breathe again; leaning back further in his chair; his hair brushing over his white collar before his head straightened again and it flowed back into its former position. "Oh, you are _so_ suspicious, Christine! You're almost like Nadir! You think I offered you this particular fruit simply to ensure that you would be trapped down here?"

"You must admit, the situations are rather similar," she retorted flatly, pulling her hand away from the fruit and back into her lap.

Erik shook his head, a rueful smile curling his lips. "Then you might as well say that I placed the apples before you to tempt you to cause the downfall of mankind and the beginning of all sin; or the grapes to entice you into a wild Bacchian frenzy…or the peaches so that you would gain eternal youth – not that that particular gift is not available, to a degree. And on a different subject, my dear, believe me when I say that I have more effective means of restricting a person than tricking them into eating a pomegranate."

"Oh, I believe you. I really do." Christine looked again at the fruit; but now she had no desire to take up any of it to raise to her lips. Somehow the hunger she had felt, and consequently mentioned to Erik, did not seem so pressing now, in the face of this beauty and health, both natural and unnatural. She did not even have to struggle to remember the loveliness of the roses, even though it seemed so long ago now; and what _their _beauty hid. "Anyway, how do I know any of this would not turn to ashes and mould in my mouth? From what I have seen, everything in the underworld seems to be made up of illusion. Why should the food be any different?"

He shrugged his shoulders, with his own natural elegance. "I would not know. Whenever I eat it all seems adequate, but everything seems that way after so long a time of enduring it."

She paused. She knew that what would come next would not aid the situation at all. But she just couldn't help it. She had to know…

"Erik, why _do _you eat? I mean, it is not as if you need to…"

He considered, as if chewing a mouthful himself. "Well, to explain - why do _you_ eat sweets, Christine? It is not as if you need to, after all."

She quailed under his sudden, scrutinizing gaze; ashamed of her own apparent greediness. "I…I suppose, because I like to…"

"To answer your question, then. It is true that I do not need to consume food nor drink. To tell the truth, I was never much inclined to do so in life, either. But now…now I eat when I wish to, because I wish to." He looked back at the fruit. "Such as now. So if you truly do not want that pomegranate, I will happily take it off your hands."

Briskly, he uncrossed his arms, leaned over the table and pulled the plate away from her and towards him; and picking up the said pomegranate began to peel off the skin, without a second glance at her – but with another of his _infuriating_ smirks, as he bent over his task.

She said nothing, simply sitting back and letting his audacity flow over her, however grudgingly. He had a way – so casual, and so subtle! – of making her feel that she was in the wrong, periodically. She suspected that he was secretly laughing at her!

_Raoul _never did that.

Raoul never did _anything _like any of the deeds that Erik had performed, so far. And she was profoundly thankful that he never would, either.

Still, she could not take her eyes off Erik's hands, though there was still her old revulsion of seeing the abrupt bones and mouldering material of the sleeves, as he carefully stripped the skin away from the redness of the seeds – as if he were flaying a living creature, to reveal the flesh beneath the outer garments…

"Oh, so you do want it after all?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The way you're staring at me, unpeeling it? Heaven knows you probably have no wish to see my hands in further detail. Well?" He held out a clump of the seeds, invitingly, temptingly.

"Well?" he asked again, gently this time.

The ruby redness of the fruit seemed to call out to her, as it lay nestled between his bony fingers, the juices running between the digits; as if he had ripped the gory heart right out of a honey comb. It fascinated her; drew all her attention, all her senses. In that single moment, that mound of seeds, pulled from the pomegranate, seemed to be everything in her scope of vision.

Slowly, she reached out her hand for it; fingers met and juice trickled down her own fingers as he carefully slipped the seeds into them; and then the boniness was gone – not that she had cared – as she lifted the fruit to her lips, and pressed it into her mouth…

_So long…_

The very sweetness of it unconsciously brought tears to her eyes, even as she closed them in ecstasy, wallowing in the revelation of the gorgeous taste, that she had gone for so long without. When had she lasted allowed herself to indulge in such a manner? To lift food to her lips, and to eat in such a way; to allow herself to surrender to the pure delight of it?

_However long it is, it has been too long, _came a fleeting thought, even as she crushed the seeds against the roof of her mouth with her tongue, letting the juices flow over it and through her mouth, savouring what seemed to her pure nectar, pure sunlight, melted and formed into the shape of such wondrous fruit. No; this fruit transcended mortality! Not even the previous, shared with her father, could ever compare to this!

No longer did she hold back from delighting in such a taste, no longer could she refrain from sighing with joy, even with her mouth full with the juice and the fruit. No, it was so much deeper than her mouth; it was inside her very spirit! She was no longer Christine; she was Eve herself, savouring her first taste of the Apple of Knowledge, the knowledge of her own boundaries, which had held her back for too long – and this surely out did any apple!

Yet all too soon the nectar died away, and the sunlight was gone; to be replaced with bitterness as the seeds made their play; and with regret she forced herself to swallow; leaving only the memory of joy and discovery still lingering in her mouth, on her tongue, her lips…

She could only look helplessly at Erik – it was as if her wonderful mouthful had taken away her voice. But he was already holding out another piece of the fruit wordlessly; wordlessly she took it, and wordlessly she ate; and once again she felt the sheer joy and exhilaration run through her at the taste; the sheer wonder. What was this fruit, that it wrought such a change in her; tore down all the inhibitions she had posted within her, to protect her against the world?

But she did not care any longer. Her cares seemed to have melted away, as Erik gave her piece after piece of the fruit. As she sank deeper into the joy and elation which the fruit gave to her, it seemed to her that it provided something more than a taste to savour – something deep within herself – so deep, that she could not even find it, not even recognise it, except on some instinctive, primeval level…

_Music._

It was music that Erik spoon-fed her with; music that he invited her to pour into her mouth and into her heart and mind…his music…

Truly, nothing here was as it seemed.

But that did not stop her from continuing to accept the flesh from his fingers; to slide it into her mouth, and allow it to enter her soul.

Now she know why Persephone succumbed; why Eve did not resist temptation; why the Maenads threw off their shackles of restraint and allowed themselves to be taken over by a stronger, fiercer urge and desire; an exhilaration which took away all their womanly weakness, and gave them strength untold in return.

**_Sisters!_**

All her senses cried out in ecstasy, as they had when she had heard Erik play – but this was a different kind of music – far deeper even than the previous melody, and far more searing upon her soul.

And Erik met her eyes as he handed her the last few seeds, scraped from the now empty skin; as she sat back sated, like a vampire who had drained its victim to the last drop of blood, sucked from the very marrow of the bones; and in her exhaustion able to see what cause of the gorging feast – and to doubt.

_What have I done?_

She gazed down at the last few seeds, cupped in her sticky fingers. She felt a sudden grossness, fatness, as if she truly had gorged herself on some lesser being – bloated and full of blood.

_Why am I still eating?_

As she thought, Erik's hand abruptly rasped across hers, as he took the seeds back from her without a word, and placed them blandly into his own mouth, crushing them with a movement of his jaw.

Only then did he speak.

"I trust it was to your liking?"

"Very," she managed. She felt so full! So filled up, with everything! How could she feel such a way, in such a way? It was impossible and yet…

…and yet…

Erik, smiled; and it was surprising how like to a vampire he looked himself; the red juice of the pomegranate staining his lips, and his alternately withered person so evident – although not as evident as before this.

"Sometimes I lived on music alone, when I lived on Earth," came his voice, even sweeter than that which she had just consumed and delighted in. "Now, I live on music again – in a different way altogether. And so have you."

With some effort, she managed to hold his gaze. "Am I going to regret this?" she asked, slowly and seriously.

His smile subsided, to be replaced with a thoughtful air. "Only if you believe it to be so, Christine. But then again, it might have been worse."

"How worse?" She was confused.

"You might have eaten the apple. Better to be Persephone than to be Eve, wouldn't you say?"

_Indeed, _she thought, even as she bent her gaze to the fruit bowl and its remaining contents again. _Better to be trapped, with a chance of escape, than to have fallen altogether._

_But have I already fallen?_

_And who will catch me?_

**

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Not quite sure what this chapter is. It's not quite fluff, because of all the gory, hard core ecstasy and stuff; but it's not quite angst either. I think I shall call it… '_flust'! _Catchy, don't you think?**

**For anyone who isn't sure about the rather strange references to fruit here, let me explain; I'm sure a lot of people will get Persephone and Eve, but the grapes and the peaches might give a slight problem. In China, they believed that the gods, to stop themselves from being generally wrinkly all the time – because being immortal's no fun if you can't be young and strong and beautiful along with it, it takes all the fun out of living forever – ate peaches of youth to keep themselves generally spry for all eternity. So much for that; now for the grapes. Maenads were the female followers of Dionysus, the Greek god of Wine, who was also generally associated with licentious behaviour – which should give you some idea of what the women got up to. Among the more interesting of their day-to-day activities, when accompanying the god – abandoning their husbands and children to go dancing off into the hills, may I add - was to go into fits of frenzy when getting high on wine and go rampaging around the place looking for animals to tear apart, which they inevitably did. And not just animals either. One king who opposed Dionysus – _not _a smart move – consequently got torn to pieces by a crowd of Maenads, including, rather unfortunately, his own mother, who ripped off his head herself. _Nasty. _**

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Read and review for the half-Irish seamstress, please!**


	24. Discoveries

**Disclaimer: Don't own POTO, or Corpse Bride. Or Howl's Moving Castle. Just a random thing there. There are so many great films coming out; and I'm in school! Not fair! And my sister's going to university on Saturday! I won't be able to watch any of them with her! WAAAAAH!**

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Hooray for flust! And bookish darogas! And pretty glass pens, in pretty boxes, with white ribbon and writing on the box! And e-pics of Butler (yayness!) Not so much for my bad taste in rooms that look like brothels! _(Shudder.) _And Greek mythology! And aid with starters to posts! And yummy, yummy pomegranates; if you get the chance, buy one and eat it, they're gorgeous! And also yummy apples! And Persephone and the coming of winter (my favourite season)! Not so much bad Italian, dammit! And pointers on potentially stolen kisses!**

**Ahem. Calmness is the key to a good, balanced lifestyle. Heh.**

**So, once more unto the surface, dear friends, once more! And back to regular normality. I guess…anyway; both Meg and Cecile know that Christine's missing. But soon they won't be the only ones…**

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All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players…

**Shakespeare**

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Discoveries

Carlotta opened her eyes quite suddenly; to instantly close them again against the light that, however dim, seemed to burn into her eyes like red hot pokers; and into her head.

Silently, she swore that she would _never _drink spirits of any sort, _ever _again. Even the smallest drop seemed to set off her headaches. And when she got her headaches…

Though thankfully this time, she didn't feel sick. Well, at least not much.

She burrowed under the covers, pulling them up and over her head; encasing herself in a warm and comforting, if slightly stuffy, nest of both eiderdown and pillow. Then, on second thoughts, she wriggled her head out of the makeshift fort and turned her pillow over, so the cold side would soothe the pounding in her head.

She settled down upon the blessedly cold material; and at once the heat went away. But the pounding remained.

No…on second thoughts – which hurt a _lot_ – it wasn't inside her head; it was coming from somewhere else. It wasn't annoying, or irritating, it was just – persistent.

And it was coming from the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

She didn't open her eyes. She didn't know what time it was, but in her opinion it was _far_ too early to get up. Maybe if there wasn't an answer, whoever was outside would get the message and go away? She burrowed down under the covers again, taking her pillow with her.

But the person outside didn't seem to have thought along her line of reasoning. The rapping went on, and on; an odd noise, as if the one causing it didn't dare to make it so loud that other people would hear, but not low enough so that she could not ignore it.

_Dio…_

She fought her way out of the coverlets again, and muttered as loudly as she could, "Go _away!" _Some tiny part of her was mortified to hear the laconic whine that infused her speech, making her sound like a sulky child; but most of her didn't care. Maybe _that_ would get the message across?

Apparently, it didn't.

"Mademoiselle Gudicelli?"

_That _made her sit up. It didn't sound like Isabella, her own maid. Much more like Christine and Meg's maid – Cecile Jammes, she thought she was called. But why was she knocking at her door?

_Unless…something is wrong?_

Rubbing the sleep out of the corners of her eyes, while trying to focus on the door, she said resignedly, "Come in, then." The time, what was the _time?_

The door creaked open; and Cecile's pale and worried face came into view, lit up by the light of the candle she held in its holder. _Extremely _worried, as far as she could see. And as her eyes became more used to the light, and she made out more and more of the girl, she could see that she had obviously dressed rather hurriedly; and her hair, which she had never seen in anything other than an iron hard not, was now simply tied back at the nape of her neck, loosely – as if neatness simply was not an issue any more.

_Hastily dressed…coming to _me…

Carlotta felt as if the bottom had gently, though not particularly comfortably, dropped out of her stomach, even as she asked, as calmly as she could, "Well? What is it?"

* * *

Raoul looked blearily up from his bed at the two girls, both pale faced, even Carlotta; and both trembling. Carlotta's arms were crossed across her breast – as if the dressing gown she had wrapped around herself did nothing to protect her from unwanted eyes – as if she was cold. But he knew that by now even Carlotta was fairly acclimatised to the temperature…

And the light that Cecile held was quivering in her grasp…

"I'll be ready in five minutes," he muttered affirmatively, pulling the covers aside as they retreated to the doorway again.

Woken up in what seemed like the middle of the night, by two seeming wraiths…he felt as if he were dreaming.

* * *

Half an hour later, safely barricaded into Meg's room, he still felt as if he were dreaming. Only now his dream was turning very sour indeed.

"But where could she have _gone?" _he asked yet again, from his seat on the bed, onto which he had sank, with a little aid from Carlotta, when Meg had first revealed the dreadful news. "I mean, _where_…?"

"I'm sorry, Raoul; I just don't know," said Meg, biting her lip, from where she sat at her dressing table; rubbing her hands together as if trying to wash them clean of her horrible confession.

He didn't know what to say; what to do. What could he do? He felt sick; he felt so sick. On instinct, he bent over, trying to calm himself, trying to dispel the feeling of dread that was flowing into his stomach and hear and threatening to well up his throat and burst out in a scream. She didn't _know?_ Christine was _missing_, and she didn't even _know _where she could have gone?

He could feel the saliva level rising in his mouth.

"For how long?"

"What?" Meg blinked, in what seemed a very stupid way to him.

"How long has she been missing?" The words came out quite calmly, some detached part of him managed to note, even as he struggled to quell the surge of pure panic mixed with terror that was flowing into every other part of his mind.

"She went off yesterday afternoon. She didn't come back."

"Yesterday afternoon," he parroted. Now the sick feeling was going, to be replaced by a dreamy state, as if he were being shut off from all of his senses.

But he was damned if he was going to faint, or some such thing. Especially since another thing was pouring through him now.

_Rage._

With an effort, his head came up again; and Meg swam back into view, her lip now quite bloodless from her biting.

"Meg… why didn't you tell me?"

The girl made no sound except a gulping sob. Suddenly he was up off the bed and coming towards her; he had no idea why he was doing so, except that he was angry with her.

_Why did she lie?_

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She shook her head, and tried to edge away; but his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her back to him.

"Why oh why didn't you tell me?" It was almost a wail; wailing out his fear and anguish for Christine. And when Meg still didn't reply, but only stammered and sobbed, he almost shook her with frustration. _"Why didn't you tell me?" _

And then there was a grip on his shoulder, and an explosion of light and harsh pain in his face; he staggered backwards, feeling the horror and rage seep out of him as the pain took over. He opened his eyes, and saw Carlotta glaring at him, shaking her hand – she had obviously just dealt him a rather hard slap across the face.

"Sit _down,"_ she commanded, pushing him backwards and back onto the bed. _"Mi Maria! _This is _not _the time to be having temper tantrums, Raoul. If Meg did not tell you, I am sure she had a reason. Didn't you, Meg?" she asked, now talking to the other girl, who was massaging her shoulders and casting frightened glances at him. Cecile, who had been a silent witness of the last few minutes, still had her hands over her mouth, as she stood by in the corner.

Raoul tried to massage some feeling back into his cheek. It felt as if it would take a while.

"I'm sorry," Meg wailed; and now the tears were spilling down her own cheeks. Raoul felt the rest of the anger drain out of him, as he watched; the poor girl had been coping with this situation for much longer than he had – what right did he have to blame her? "I'm so, so sorry, Raoul – I _know_ I should have said something, but Christine said she would be back, and I just didn't know what to _do!_" The last word turned into a wail of her own, as she buried her face in her hands.

"It doesn't matter, Meg," he said, as well as he could through a rapidly swelling lip. "For now, we have to tell my brother and grandfather; they'll send people out at once-"

"No, we do not."

_What?_

Meg brought up her face from her hands again, her eyes newly red, her mouth open; her face a perfect reflection of what his own face must surely look like. "Carlotta, what are you _thinking?"_

"I know what I am thinking, thank you, Meg. And do you know what I am thinking? I am thinking that if the elders in the de Chagny household find out that Christine has willingly stayed away from the house for a whole night, they will not be so inclined to allow this wedding to go ahead. That is what I am thinking."

"But-" Raoul began; and then he saw the logic in Carlotta's words. If Philippe the Elder alone found out about this, he would jump to conclusions at once; and he could easily guess what those conclusions would be.

Meg, however, failed to see the said logic. "I don't _care!_ We're not talking about her staying away; we're talking about her being _missing! _Anything could have happened to her, Carlotta, anything! We have to get people to find her!"

"Meg, listen, listen to me." Carlotta ducked down by the chair, seizing Meg's hands in hers. "Christine is sensible and brave; I doubt that she will let herself get into trouble. If she is staying away, then she is staying away for a reason."

"But _why?" _he burst out – the thought that Christine stayed away from him for _choice_ made him feel as if he'd been punched in the gut. "Why should she do such a thing?"

"For the same reason that she went to visit the Pastor, I would guess," Carlotta shot over her shoulder. "Meg; Meg; we _will_ send Buquet and the other grounds men to look for her. We know they can be trusted. But we cannot tell anyone else, for her sake."

Raoul had managed to pull himself together by this time; and added, "It's true. If…Grandpére and Philippe found out about this, they would never let us marry. They'd pack Christine off as damaged goods, if..." he steeled himself; and continued. "_When _she came back."

Carlotta gave a wan smile. "I have lived in this country for two months. I know how it works by now. Men are allowed to do whatever they wish; women must stay pure as fresh snow."

Meg hesitated, and then nodded.

Carlotta glanced around the room. "Apart from Buquet and his helpers, we cannot tell _anyone,_" she said, slowly. "Do you understand, Cecile?"

Cecile, from her corner, nodded. Then again, she seemed so afraid she didn't look as if she would do anything else in such a situation.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Gudicelli. Only…" she trailed away, as all three looked at her.

"Only what?" he said hoarsely. _I do _not_ need this._

"Well…Mademoiselle Daaé's absence must be kept a secret…but she is meant to be at the masquerade tonight."

There was silence in the room for a moment. Then Meg sniffed, and stood up decisively. "And she _will_ be there."

It took him only moments to realise what plan was going on inside her head, and for his own mind to run and hide.

"Oh, no." He stood up himself. "I know what you're thinking, Meg. It won't _work_."

Carlotta looked from one of them to the other, clearly at a loss. "Is there something I should know about?"

"Meg here is planning on dressing someone else up in Christine's costume, I believe. And I believe that it will never work."

But Carlotta was already looking thoughtful. "If the dress is there, then Christine will be there too, I would guess."

"For goodness sake!" he barked, making all the girls jump. "This isn't one of your romantic tales! It's who's _inside _the dress that's important; and I seriously doubt that my relatives are going to be fooled by someone pretending to be my fiancée, just because she's wearing the dress and the mask!"

"But it's a masquerade! Illusion is all part of it." Meg's eyes were gleaming. He couldn't believe this; she actually _believed_ her crazy scheme would be a success!

"Oh, really? And who's going to play the part in this illusion? We don't have a suitable candidate to pose as Christine running around, inconvenient as it is! Unless _you_ would like to volunteer, Meg? Or perhaps Carlotta?"

Meg bit her lip, perhaps only now beginning to see the flaws in her plan.

"Cecile, would you please get Mademoiselle Daae's dress?" she said slowly. "Help her, Carlotta."

The two other girls, now totally bewildered, silently made their way into the adjoining room. Within a minute they were back, lugging the elaborate dress between them, careful not to let it drag upon the floor.

Raoul marvelled. _How did we get here from Christine's absence? _But at once his stomach seized up.

_Don't think about Christine. It made it easier. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about her…_

_Oh, God…Christine, where _are _you? _

"Hold it up, please." She was walking around it one way, skirting around Carlotta and Cecile's skirts, and then slowly back the other way, examining the bodice and waist line most carefully; now the iron hard schemer, instead of the weeping flower.

_What is she doing?_

Eventually she came to a halt, and sighed; in a way quite reminiscent of her mother. "Well, it would seem that the only person that dress would fit is also the only person who would be able to pass for Christine more than a little effectively."

"Look, Meg, what do you-" Raoul began – and then realised she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on Cecile.

Cecile had caught on before he had, and had already let go of the dress, leaving Carlotta to sway under its weight, and was backing away, her hands over her mouth again.

"Oh, no; please, Mademoiselle Giry!"

"For heavens' sake, Cecile, I'm not going to eat you! Sit down!"

Cecile collapsed into an armchair, visibly trembling now.

"Please, Mademoiselle, don't ask me to do this. I…I can't…"

"Meg," Raoul said, for the younger Giry was already advancing on Cecile with a calculating expression, "I won't let you force her into it!"

"I wouldn't force her, Raoul," Meg said quietly, without turning around. "It is Cecile's choice." Making her way to the chair, she took Cecile's hand. "Cecile. Do you love your mistress?"

The dark haired maid looked up at her, gulped and nodded.

"Then, for your love of her, please help us." Meg squeezed her hand. "I would not force you to this task; but no one else can help us in this. Please, say you will aid us in preventing Christine from shame."

Raoul felt as if he wanted to cry.

Cecile gulped again; but this time she shot a glance at the dress, and her eyes lingered on the gorgeous garment.

"If they find out, I'll loose my place, I know I will, Mamselle," she mumbled.

"You shan't as long as I employ you," Meg said firmly. "I won't let them do anything to you. Believe me, you will be in no danger. Say you'll do it, Cecile! Oh, say you will!"

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Understandably you might think that Raoul isn't too annoyed at his fiancée going missing, but shock is a strange thing – it creeps up on you, and then _wham! _It gets you by the throat, and you're crying and gasping and sobbing and feeling like you might have a breakdown. Hee hee. Also, the whole sketch with Cecile dressing up as Christine is a sort of spoof on all those operas where somebody doesn't recognise someone they know very well just because they've got a mask on. Umm, yeah. Sorry if it's a bit rushed; but I wanted to get this over and done with so I could get on with the better angst and stuff later on. Also so I could get both plot points out of the way. Not very good chapter, but hey! That just means we get more E and C next one! Also, hope all you Raoul lovers liked; it's been a while since I did a chapter mostly from his point of view.****

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Reviews for the half Irish seamstress. PLEASE?**


	25. Page black, page white

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, or Corpse Bride; or Kate Winslet's dresses in Titanic – not even the 'flying' dress, sob sob.**

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So, I think Corpse Bride is out by now in America! What do y'all think of it? I can't _wait_ over here. Just like I can't wait to see Howl's Moving Castle – again. _Wheee!_**

**So, once again with E and C, down in the underground and all that. Also, I think I should tell you; that thing with Victor's skeleton dog, Scraps. Well, some of you might have been hoping that I'd do that with Ayesha – you know, have her as a skeleton cat and all that. I'm sorry to tell you that it won't be happening. It would be really nice to have her like that, of course; but if I did so I think it would start becoming a bit ridiculous. So, no bony moggy. Meh. Thank you all for your lovely reviews. We shall have to see about Cecile 'faking it' – and about more 'flust'. And…Danny Elfman?...Maybe we should just get on with the chapter.**

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There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray**

**you love, remember: and there is pansies, that's **

**For thoughts…**

**There's fennel for you, and columbines: - there's**

**rue for you; and here's some for me: - we may **

**call it herb-grace o' Sundays: - O, you must wear**

**your rue with a difference. – There's a daisy: - I **

**would give you some violets, but they wither'd **

**all when my father died…**

**Ophelia's madness, Act IV Sc V **

**Shakespeare's Hamlet, Prince of Denmark**

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Page black, page white

_How long have I been here?_

Christine concentrated on breathing; in and out…in, and out; again and again, the mantra of her life. She tried to let herself fall away from herself; tried to forget the feel of the coverlet against her skin, her hair that fell over her face; the twitch of her eyelids; the press of her breasts, squashed as they were both together and against the mattress of the bed; the palpitating of her eyelids, the throbbing of her pulse in her temple and her throat and even in her stomach. She tried to imagine that she was buried deep within the earth; deeper even than Erik had brought her; so deep that nothing could ever reach her, that nothing could ever rouse her or wake her again.

It didn't help.

It was as if, in the sleep that Erik had induced in her who knew how long ago now, he had robbed her of any further need to sleep, or ability to do so; just as the pomegranate seemed to have taken away all her hunger. As if Erik didn't want her to escape by sleep…

_Oh, it's not _fair!

With a growl, she opened her eyes and sat up; swung her legs off the bed and was onto her feet in a moment. As she stalked out of the bedroom she half expected Erik to be sitting on the seat at the organ, turning around to smile his sardonic smile at her, which made her so _furious…_

But he was nowhere in sight.

Suspiciously, she made her way down the steps, towards the organ. The boat was still here, so that meant that _he _must still be here as well…but where _was_ he? She gathered the folds of her skirt – strange, how this material never seemed to crease – and softly made her way across the sandy floor, her bare feet tickled by the grains of sand beneath. As she climbed up the steps to the organ seat, she kept her eyes out for any sign – any at all – of Erik. It wouldn't surprise her if he suddenly sprang at her, out of nowhere.

But she arrived at the seat, and nothing had happened. No voices of outrage; no suddenly skeletal holds around her, no whispers that sent tingles down her spine-

She hastily amended her treacherous thought; and looked down at the table beside the piano stool, where the manuscript of _Don Juan Triumphant_ was…

…where it had been. The huge mound of parchment was gone, to be replaced with a singe piece of paper. What had happened? Had _he _taken it away, to hide it somewhere more effective? Did he not trust her?

She had no illusions about that answer to that last question. If she were Erik, she certainly wouldn't trust her to leave what seemed to be his most prized possession alone.

But still…

To quell her confused feelings, she reached forward, and picked up the lone piece of paper, lifting it to her gaze.

She gasped in wonder.

It was a portrait, drawn by hand, of a woman; a woman who made Christine draw her breath in awe and delight; a portrait which included her hands, holding a posy of flowers; elegant and long fingered and graceful; and the flowers beautiful, wild blooms, gorgeous splashes of colour.

But it was the woman's face which at once drew the eye; the artist had evidently not had to flatter the sitter, the sketch and subsequent drawing having been made with a definite air of certainty, as if there could be no question about the evident beauty of the model. Each feature was drawn and shaded with loving precision, no detail missed…

No, no detail missed, none at all. For all her ethereal beauty, this woman was real, so very real; alongside the beauty were the traces of the model's mortality, the crow's feet at the corners of the eyes, the lines upon her forehead. This woman was not a fantasy, an illusion, something dreamed up by a master in the art of drawing; she was real – or at least, she had been real, once upon a time, long ago.

Who had she been, this lady of loveliness? By what chance had Erik come to sketch her; and with such devotion, such evident care?

Christine was surprised to find a faint feeling of jealousy burning within her.

She sank down to sit upon the sit, barely aware of who had sat there before; not even paying attention to the footsteps, coming swiftly closer…

"What are you looking at, Christine?" Too late she looked up, into Erik's half face, caught in the trap of his yellow eyes; those eyes filled with such love. Love? Automatically she thought to hide the drawing; but a little voice inside her mind whispered _Show it to him, see what he does…_

Silently, she held out the drawing; and did not even flinch when his fingers brushed hers as he took it, she was so intent upon his face, on seeing his expression.

He looked down at the paper; she saw his eyes widen with sudden surprise; swiftly he looked up, and she almost shrank away from his stare.

"Where did you get this?"

"I found it on the seat," she shot back, getting her bearings.

He stared at her for a moment, then looked down at the picture again.

"I thought I'd lost this…I drew it, ages and ages ago…"

And the way he looked at the picture; the way he raised a suddenly shaking hand to trace a finger across the features sketched so long ago, in a way that no lover used, suddenly helped her to realise. The same dark hair, the same chin…

"What was your mother's name?"

He showed no surprise at her guess which was not a guess, but the truth, he only murmured "Magdalene…" as if breathing a prayer.

"What…what was she like?"

He looked up at her at last, his face…almost calm; tranquil, with a peace she had never seen in him before. But also…there was a tremble, in those yellow eyes. He sighed – such a sigh, as huge as the world! – and sat down beside her. She felt his solid arm brush against hers, but she somehow did not mind – after all, it at least was not skeletal part of the time.

"Well, where to begin? She was very beautiful, as you have already seen…"

"Oh, yes." No one could deny the beauty of the portrait Erik still held in her hands; to do so would be to simply lie.

"And she loved me. Oh yes, you might find it difficult to believe, she being so beautiful," came Erik's voice, with forced casualness, "but it is true nevertheless."

"Why should I find it so difficult to believe someone could love you?" Christine asked without thinking. Too late she realised what she had said; but she couldn't take it back now.

But Erik didn't seem to have heard. He was looking at the picture he held, like some priceless jewel, in his hands. "It is ironic, you know. The only woman who could ever bring herself to embrace me, kiss me, even…and she was at the same time so beautiful, and yet…"

"And yet what?"

He sighed. "Christine, you must understand this. My mother, although she was an uncommonly kind woman, was not exactly…normal, shall we say."

"Not normal?" She looked again at the picture of the woman, those lovely dark eyes seeming to shine out of the paper. _Not normal?_ "What was wrong with her?" she asked slowly, dreading the answer with all her mind and heart.

The sigh came again; this time torn from areas long sealed up and locked away. "Not _wrong, _as such. It was just…she imagined things. She became scared, easily. Whenever there was a thunder storm, she would hide away in her bed, crying with fear. And she…did things…" His voice was now a mumble.

"What sort of things?" She was not aware of how hard, how unforgiving, how prying, her young voice seemed.

"She…said that sometimes, she heard voices. They would tell her to do things, things she didn't want to do. She usually paid no attention to them, but there were sometimes when she didn't have any choice. She'd do things, say things that other people would rather she would not do or say." Erik's voice, usually so musical, was now a dull monotone, as he recited a chilling catechism of eccentricities. "When I got older, it started getting worse. She'd go outside when it was raining and dance in only her shift; pick flowers and wear them in her hair until they wilted and rotted. She wouldn't pay attention when people were talking to her. Sometimes she'd just sit in the tree in our garden, sucking on her fingers and staring up at the sky." Erik had closed his eyes by now. "I didn't mind so much; but the village people hated it. They had always despised her anyway, after she had me and refused to get rid of me. She had never done anything _wrong_…apart from giving birth to me, you might say; but they didn't care. She was just different, and they hated her for it."

"What happened?"

His voice was now like ice; a whisper from beyond the grave. "When I was ten, some men came to our house at night. They told my mother to come with them, and when she wouldn't, they dragged her out of the house, violently. I tried to stop them, but one of them knocked me down, and they took her away from me; to a _sanatorium." _He grimaced, his eyes snapping open. "I never saw her again, until once, many years later. Have you ever seen inside an…institute, Christine? I am glad you will never see that one. After I saw what went on there, what she had been reduced to, I prayed to God, with all the belief I had left, that he would end her suffering. And perhaps he did, in the end."

There was silence between them. Christine had to clutch her knees, her hands trembling.

"Did…did you ever find out what was wrong with her?"

"I believe it was something the doctors call schizophrenia – a mental condition. The curious thing is," he went on, standing up abruptly, "that if I had lived, I would probably have ended up in an institute as well. Oh, you look so surprised? That type of insanity is one that regularly runs in a family. I think I would prefer being dead to going mad, or ending my days in a sanatorium."

"Erik?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Have you ever seen your mother, down here?"

All the forced joviality in him seemed to ebb away. Slowly, he sank down beside her again.

"No," came his voice, soft again. "Though I have searched through all this underworld more times than you could guess or number, I have never found her. After all, angels have no place in Hell." He shifted in his seat. "Except the fallen ones."

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Will you show me the underworld?" She sought out his eyes, narrowed now as they were in regarding her face, for sincerity. She knew he would find it.

"Are you certain that you wish to see it, Christine?"

"I am certain, Erik. I want to know what you have…existed through, for all this time. If you are with me, I will have no need to be afraid." She paused, and then added recklessly, "And I am tired with this cave."

He nodded decisively, and stood up again. "That is as good an excuse as any. Come."

* * *

He handed her into the boat; she took her seat, her heart pounding within her as she sat where she had sprawled before. It was the first time she had been in the craft since her abduction, in circumstances vastly different – or perhaps not so different…

A silken touch fell upon her shoulders; she jerked around to see Erik already in the boat bending over her, laying something on her shoulders, his fingers not quite touching them – a silken red cape, which she could feel pour down her back to pool behind her, and at his feet.

"To keep you warm," he said, by way of explanation.

"But it's not cold!"

"It will be colder where we are going." Pulling his own cape around him more effectively, he picked up the pole, and pushed out. She pulled the cloak around her; it was no longer cool but surprisingly warm, for silk. As the boat swayed beneath her, and she heard the rush and gurgle of the water around, and she watched the bank fall away from them, as Erik turned the craft around with barely an effort, to face the gateway, felt as if she had never been both in complete control of and at the complete mercy of the situation. She felt terrifed.

But at the same time, she felt a strangeness that was not so strange, just an emotion long unused or called for.

She was _excited._

"You might want to close your eyes," Erik said.

"Why?"

"Well, when we pass through the gateway, it will be – quite different, to what you expect."

"Any more different than this?"

He chuckled. "Keep them open then, Mademoiselle. But not expect this to be a quiet boat ride."

"After the way we arrived, Monsieur, I would not expect anything else."

Erik chuckled again; then she _felt _him raise his arm – he made a sweeping gesture…

And then there was…

_Light. _

**

* * *

I was getting a bit fed up of Christine mooching about in the lair while Erik got to visit Nadir. Also, I wanted to bring a bit of the Corpse Bride universe in – this has been getting distinctly Phantomy again. Also, we have more flust, people! Well, I mean, it's not exactly fluffy when you're talking about someone's mother who got put in a mental hospital, is it?**

**Also, my vision of Christine has changed – though I enjoyed Emmy Rossum's performance, I imagine Christine now to look like Princess November in Andrael's _No Rest for the Wicked _– which you can find at www dot icarusfalls dot com / wicked; it is a very good online comic indeed – only with brown hair, not red. And without the bags under her eyes. That, incidentally, was where I got Christine's trouble with sleeping; the seasonal princess has a problem in that area as well. And also, I have my vision of her perfected at the moment concerning what she's wearing; Rose's dress from Titanic when she's swimming about when the ship sinks, and the cloak from the roof scene – only in silk. My, my, Christine; we _are _well dressed today!**

**Oh, yes; I also got the whole bit of Christine closing her eyes from Hitch Hiker's Guide to the galaxy, when Arthur Dent and Slartibartfast are about to go through the portal – though feel free to assume I got it from _Music of the Night. _**

**

* * *

Review for the half-Irish seamstress, please!**


	26. Necropolis

**Disclaimer: Don't own Corpse Bride, or POTO, or anything filmy in this. That's the way the cookie crumbles, you know.**

**

* * *

Sorry for not writing for so long. Being in the Lower Sixth, you know. Lots of work to do. Ooo, I am _so _excited! _It's _come out here, at last! Whee _hee!_**

**So, this is where the Underworld really comes in, with all the dancing skeletons and stuff…or something. And a treat for all you who liked the film…hee hee heee…**

…**I've got to stop writing the _'hee hee heee'_s – they just make me look slightly mad.**

* * *

'_Sleep little, my lovely,_

_And wake with a smile;_

_Death is forever,_

_Life's only a while!'_

Adapted from the Canterbury tales by Geraldine McCaughrean

**

* * *

**

Necropolis

Abruptly, the light ceased once more. Christine tried to blink the purple blotches out of her vision, rubbing her eyes – but stopped, as she caught sight of what now lay in front of her.

"Oh, my…"

Her first impression was of _height. _She had seen inside cathedrals, and mansions; the Opera house in Paris and the inside of the de Chagny mansion. But this…this was completely different. This wasn't just a high ceiling, it was a high _sky! _Surely it must be the sky; it had stars, and it was a deep, midnight blue; and it was so _high!_

Except…

"It's not real, is it?" she called back to Erik, tentatively.

"I shouldn't think so," he replied, already guessing what she was looking at. "We're far underground, Christine. The only real sky anyone down here will see now is in their own head. Which probably doesn't make it a real sky either…"

"So they don't go up to the Land of the Living at all?"

"As they say down there," and with that Erik gestured towards what seemed like a great plane supporting an _enormous_ city, nestled far beneath the artificial, cavernous sky, and far beneath them, with many glowing lights, and putting on an exaggerated whine, _"'why go up _there_ when people are _dying_ to get down here?'"_ He shook his head, and looked away. "Idiots."

Christine, who had stifled a little giggle when he had spoken in the high pitched voice – she couldn't help it, he had sounded so funny! – could not help saying, either, "But _you _went up there."

"Well, that was different." Erik punted the boat along, with effortless ease. Christine wondered how exactly they were going to get down to the city, if they were so high up on the cliff, but she pushed the thought away as she paid attention to him. "I had an added incentive."

"What was that?"

"You," he replied simply. "You might want to hold on now."

"W…why?" She was still trying to get over the power he could put into such simple words – such belief, and such love. She had _felt_ the very scorch of it through the one syllable…

"Here is where the current gets a little…turbulent."

And before she had time to reply, ask another question or say _anything, _she abruptly felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her stomach; just in time she grasped at the side of the craft as it plummeted down, and down, and _down._

"_Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…" _Her breath was torn out of her in a wild shriek, as something – was it air? Could you _have _air down here? – whistled past her ears and into her mouth and her hair streamed up behind her, tugging at her scalp. She couldn't see anything; she had closed her eyes against the pressure by now. She felt as if she was on a nightmare ride, which would never, ever end; just an eternity of falling and screaming and screaming and falling.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped; her stomach stopped trying to claw its way up through her throat and out of her mouth, and instead plunged straight down into her legs. It was not a pleasant feeling at all. She groaned, and leant forward, trying not to be sick. Not that there was much in her stomach, except that pomegranate.

"Look up," came Erik's voice from behind her, seemingly quite unaffected by their freefall. "We're nearly there."

Angrily, she forced her head up, her eyes squeezing open…and then all her nausea dropped away, as she stared.

In their fall, they had somehow managed to go over some sort of cliff…water-fall…_anything, _and in doing so had gotten much closer to the strange city. They were now on the river which was winding its way into the heart of the city; Erik was propelling them with amazing dexterity through the blue waters, not even having to fight against the current…but then again, the current was flowing _into _the city, with slightly unnatural speed.

She swivelled around in her seat, to stare back at Erik. His golden eyes met hers, and they twinkled with amusement…and something else.

"Welcome to the Necropolis, Christine. The most aptly named city in the world – or underneath it."

* * *

"This place – it is _huge!"_

Erik smiled, as if at her naivety. "It has to be. A lot of people…reside here."

Christine was so awestruck by all she saw around her, she barely noticed as Erik subtly slipped his hand under her arm, and guided her away from the huge building she was staring at, and onwards into the amazing city. Everything was so _big! _There were towers, made of both black marble and of white, and sometimes of both, crowding up and all around them, clustering up to the 'sky'; there were squares with fountains and high pedestals upon which sat grand, elaborate statues of men on horseback or other various scenes from mythologies, only half of which Christine, even with her education in stories, was able to recognise; there were trees, which had greatly surprised her, until she looked more closely and saw that they had simply been fashioned, however exquisitely, out of a brown, gleaming metal – probably bronze, though she was no expert on precious metals – the leaves out of some paper thin green stone, at which she snorted. At least Erik didn't try to imitate his roses in cold, dead materials, even more dead than the plants themselves had ever been.

Everything, in short, was built on a colossal, slightly abnormal scale; a mix of the familiar and the oriental, the grand mausoleum and the everyday grand house or apartment in Paris; and it went on and on and _on…_

And then there were the people…

Secretly, Christine had been expecting something, or _things_, like Erik, or at the very least like that man, Nadir, with the gash in his throat. But she was more surprised than by anything else to see fairly normal people walking down the streets of this strange, strange city; some she might have seen back on the various streets in Paris, and some the likeness of she had seen only in travelogues, and pictures of far off places. As she watched in awe, a beautiful oriental woman, dressed in gorgeous silk clothes which somehow seemed to ripple around her feet, and with her face made up deathly white and her lips as red as blood, crossed serenely across the street, the ornaments in her elaborate black hairstyle jingling slightly, confident in her exceptional beauty as she surely must have been in life.

The only slightly marring effect in this otherwise perfect image was the vibrant red slash mark in her stomach, just below her large silk sash, most likely made by a sword.

"Most spirits keep the form they had at the instant of their death," Erik's voice whispered abruptly into her ear, making her start. "That lady there, I know for a fact, committed _hari-kari; _and she still has the stomach wound to prove it."

"I…see," she replied slowly, removing her eyes hastily from the woman, who was now on the opposite side of the street and walking sedately away. After a few moments silent contemplation, she decided to voice the thoughts which had suddenly emerged at such news. "Erik, how did _you-_"

But she stopped as abruptly as she had started; all her questions lost in a rushed heartbeat and gasp as she stared out at the place Erik had subtly led them to.

The best way she could think to describe it was as something akin to Saint Mark's Square in Venice, or Saint Peter's Square in Rome, both of which she had seen many pictures of, transformed into a ballroom; but even more so. Those spaces had been limited even by mortal standards; but in this place there appeared to be no such limits, and so the space spread out seemed larger than both of them put together; the buildings surrounding the dance floor were even taller that any other she had seen in the city, seeming to reach right up to the seeming sky, and yet shutting out no light. The light rather seemed to hang over the whole proceedings, like a beautiful glowing haze, stolen from the moon itself.

And as for the dancers…Christine had never seen so many people, in _any _place. She couldn't even comprehend trying to count, because she would probably become an old woman herself before she could estimate every single being that moved and swayed in that great throng before her; men and women of seemingly every nation she had heard of, and many that she hadn't, some dressed in fashions that seemed to her eyes almost outlandish, but somehow fitted in here perfectly. And not just adults, there were children as well; she could see an obvious family group, a little girl dancing between her parents, holding on to her mother's right hand and her father's left and being lifted up into the air, her mouth open although Christine could only faintly hear her squeals of delight.

And above all this was music…how she could have missed it before, she had no idea. It was unlike anything she heard before, even in Erik's lair; it caught at her lungs and heart and made her catch her breath again. She supposed that it was only because she was still alive; but the music seemed to be having a strange effect upon the dancers as well. They all seemed to be moving in time with it, dancing to its rhythm, no matter what they were actually doing. Even the people she could see leaning out of the windows on the buildings looking out onto the square, watching this strange display, were swaying in time to the strange, haunting melody.

"What is this place?" she asked tentatively.

"A very good question." Erik drew her slightly nearer, his arm pulling hers closer to him. "Have you ever heard of _La Danse Macabre?"_

"The Dance of Death," she replied automatically. "A tradition in medieval times, an obsession with the afterlife. What about it?"

"Well, what do you think inspired it?"

_What indeed? _She looked back at the dancers; revolving endlessly around the square. "How long have they been dancing for?"

"For as long as the dance and the music continues; and it has gone without stopping ever since Time began; ever since humans first learnt to make music and to dance and brought down what they had learned in their brief lives to the underworld with them."

"You mean-"

"Not that these people have been dancing for all that time," Erik went on swiftly, as if anticipating her question. "They break off from dancing to return sometimes, or never to return to the dance again; but there are always more dancers ready to cut in, ready to take their places. The musicians too leave when they wish, or when they have no desire to play any longer; but always there are another pair of hands to take hold of the instrument so that it does not fall silent."

"So this song and dance has being continuing ever since humans could first die?"

"Well, the dancing place has altered, as our expectations of buildings have changed. And of course the dances have changed with time, as has the music itself. But in all essence, yes, Christine; this ballroom of sorts has always been here, and the dance has always been danced, and the music has always been played."

"But what do they do it for?"

"To celebrate that they have broken free of mortal restraint; or the fact that they are with the ones they love once more. Or possibly just that they are dead. After all, from their point of view, things can hardly get worse."

She looked up at Erik's face, trying to see if he was joking – he had seemed serious enough – but his golden eyes were no longer on her. They were looking out across the square, seemingly mesmerised by the sight of the moving bodies, moving to the music.

"Erik…"

The atmosphere – she could not really say air – around her suddenly felt very close. She let go of Erik's arm to raise a hand to her temple, which was beginning to throb; there was a buzzing in her ears now. She took two steps forward dizzily, and saw an white arm come towards her out of nowhere; but she felt too strange – almost as if she were drunk again – to be able to dodge out of the way in time.

But the arm did not make contact with her – at least, she did not think it did. All she felt was a sudden coldness brush her face; the woman to whom the arm belongeddanced on with her partner without apparently noticing her, and something – probably Erik - grabbed hold of her own wildly flailing arm, trying to pull her backwards; unconsciously she swivelled meaning that she stepped out further onto the dance floor and her erstwhile rescuer was dragged after her.

At once the music hit her hard and washed over and through her; she felt as if someone had set off a firework inside her head. Her hands clasped Erik's fingers instinctively, as she felt her feet move of their own accord; carrying her away from the edge of the square in high, fluid steps, almost as if she were skipping, and seemingly dragging Erik with her. At first she made to try and stop herself; but as she whirled around and around, spinning around and barely holding on to Erik's hands, she found it more and more hard to make the attempt; and she felt the urge to stop holding herself back altogether; to break free and let her old adeptness at dancing come back, from the places where she had banished it when she gave up her ballet.

She arched her body, pivoted on the balls of her feet, ready to fly away from the grasp, to fly with the other dancers – only to be jerked out of both her ecstasy and her desire to dance with a jolt.

_This is wrong._

Her pause gave an arm the opportunity to curl around her waist and whirl her right off the dance floor again. The heat left her veins, leaving her gasping, and the support was gone as she had to lean upon a pillar.

"What was _that?_" she wheezed, to no one in particular.

"_That _was what we tend to call 'The Siren's Call'," Erik muttered, looking out over the square of still dancing beings, what she could see of his face contorted into a frown. "It comes sooner than later in any music that is played here – a change of partners, if you will; a chance for those weary of dancing to be let off, and calling those who have not yet danced to the floor, irresistibly. It is possible to restrain yourself and ignore the call, of course, if that is your wish – but I had no idea of the effect it would have upon the living. I am sorry, Christine."

"For what? I haven't felt like that in years, it was wonderful! It was as if I could have danced forever!"

Erik tore his gaze away from the dancers, to look sternly at her. "And if you hadn't managed to pull yourself out of it in time, that is precisely what you would have done. Some have danced here for thousands of years, unable and un-desiring to break free from the music and the dance. You would have danced, unable to save yourself, until you dropped down dead; and then your spirit would have continued to dance in your body's wake."

"Oh." There didn't seem to be anything else to say.

"But you did break free," he went on, turning away from the dancing, a small smile creasing his face. "And no one seems to have noticed you, which is all to the good."

_Not noticed me? _Christine looked around her. It was true; spirits passing them by while walking through the colonnade, or watching the dancing as they were watching, did not even look at her at all, let alone twice. And she remembered passing people in the streets, and not attracting their attention – they didn't even _look_ at her, the only living thing in this underworld…

"I would have thought they would," she muttered, pushing herself up off the pillar, and pulling her cloak around her more tightly. "I mean, a living person in the Land of the Dead…surely that does not happen every day?"

"No. But many here have lost their hold on Life, and are therefore unable to recognise it, even when it is right in front of their noses."

"Oh." She tugged her cloak about her even more. She suddenly felt very lost and alone, in this city of the departed – who could not even tell that she herself was not dead! How could she tell, herself?

"_Erik!"_

The sudden shout nearly jolted her out of her skin; it was so unexpected she gave a little shriek. For a moment she thought her ears deceive her – she could have sworn that she heard Erik swear under his breath, before coolly turning to face wherever the voice had come from.

"And then there are those have not lost their hold by any means," he muttered to her out of the corner of his mouth, before nodding coolly at the approaching, buoyant figure. _"Jules."_

Christine found herself face to face with a man who was as different from the sedate, calm beings she had encountered, and the graceful dancing shapes she had seen and briefly been touched by, as it was possible to be. Everything about him spoke of _loudness; _his bright, coppery coloured hair upon which his brown, rounded hat barely nestled, the vibrancy of his embroidered waistcoat, the ruddy colour of his skin, the milky whiteness of one of his eyes, so out of place in his otherwise red face, and most of all his voice, tinged with a certain accent often found in England, which boomed out again, making her ears ring, as he spoke to a frowning Erik.

"Well, well, well; and who do you have here, Erik? I've never known _you_ to be so sociable with a lady before!"

"Shut _up_, Jules!" Erik ground out; she could see him clenching his gloved fists.

"Oh really, Erik, there's no need to be offended!" the man – Jules – said cheerily. "Congratulating you is not a crime!" He leant closer, his voice sounding strange when quieter. "And if you think I can't see that she's alive, Erik, or what's happened to you, you've been shut up in that lair of yours for far too long!"

"Jules, don't-"

Jules winked. "Don't worry; I won't tell a _soul!" _Beaming at the infuriated look on Erik's face, he turned to Christine, and caught up her hand in both of his, shaking it. It was a strange sensation – not at all like touching Erik, who did at least feel like a normal human, if slightly wasted, depending on what form he was in at the time – but Jules, for all his ruddy colour and warm looking hands, was cold to the touch, and sent a shudder through her. He, however, did not appear to notice.

"It is very good to meet you, miss! Might I know your name?"

"Chris…Christine…Christine Daaé," she managed, as the feeling flowed out of her arm from being pumped so much. "It is good to meet you, sir."

Erik coughed, disgruntled. "Christine, this is Jules Bernard…"

"Erik always prefers to use my proper name, even though he knows I don't like it," Jules said, giving both of them a wink.

"Probably because you irritate me so much, Jules…Monsieur Jules Bernard, who prefers for some reason to be referred to by his ridiculous nickname, 'Bonejangles'," Erik finished, a faint grin on his face now, despite himself.

"And don't say it isn't catchy, Erik!" Jules – or Bonejangles, or whatever he preferred to be called – let go of her hand, and clapped both of his together. "Right! Since you've deigned to come here, for once, Erik, I can therefore issue an invitation to you!"

"_Jules,"_ Erik said warningly again.

"Come on, Erik; how long have you been shut up there, playing on that organ of yours? The least I can do is treat you to a round of drinks, on me!"

"I…I think perhaps not," Christine stuttered, and not only from the sight of Erik's face. A 'round of drinks' inevitably meant a bar of some sort; and she had been warned by Madame Giry that bars were one of the places where young ladies should _never _go.

'Bonejangles' laughed, more gently than she might have guessed. "It's all right, little lady; there's nothing stronger in my bar than _spirits."_

Christine heard Erik groan deeply, even as the atmosphere and scenery around them burst into colour. In the blink of an eye they were no longer standing in the colonnade by the grand court yard, but instead were in the middle of – well, she wasn't sure _what _it was, except that it was _loud,_ and bright, and crowded, and vibrant. There was music all around them, but it was completely different from the haunting melody of the dancers; it had a distinctly _odd_ flavour – odd, but not unpleasant; she had heard it once or twice before, when walking through slightly less enlightened streets back in Paris.

But she barely had time to catch her breath or look at her surroundings, for at once a chair was swept under her legs and she sat down abruptly at a small table. Erik, next to her, having been seated in apparently the same way, was not looking very pleased at all.

Jules darted around from behind them, having shoved them into the seats, and beamed at them. "I will be right back with your beverages, _Monsieur_ and _Madame!_" So saying, he danced away towards the bar, through the seated or standing patrons of the 'establishment' - she wasn't quite sure what sort of place they were in yet.

"Is he…slightly touched in the head?" she inquired, after a moment of relative silence, shifting in her seat and pulling her cloak put from under her to drape it across the back of the chair.

"In a manner of speaking," Erik replied sourly, glaring at their host, who was now talking animatedly to someone she couldn't see behind the bar, gesturing towards them. "Apparently he was slightly odd even when he was alive, so now he is even more so. He told me once he had always dreamed of owning a – 'pub', as he called it. When he came down here he was able to pull a few strings, and-"

"He's talking to a head," Christine, who had only just caught sight of the receiving end of Jules's statements, breathed in fascinated horror. "He's talking to a _severed head_ propped up on the bar – and it's talking back!"

"That would be Henri," Erik said, without looking around. "A bit of a come-down from being a duc de Montmerency, of course, but he is very respective of – the certain _needs _of others."

"Of course." She watched as the head – Henri – jerked his eyebrows towards a tray with two glasses on it that had magically appeared next to him; and Jules scooped them up, and bore down upon them again with a smile. She forced a smile to her own lips as she accepted the small glass of clear liquid from him, not sure what to do with it – she remembered full well what Madame Giry had told her and Meg about drinking mysterious clear liquids.

"Thank you, monsieur," she said obediently, her etiquette still intact even in this strange place. _It is probably the only thing that I can rely on…_

"Call me Bonejangles, everyone else does," the one-eyed barkeeper replied, delivering her a roguish wink with his un-milky eye even as he delivered Erik his glass, which earned him another glare from Erik. "Except Erik here, who insists on calling me either Jules or Bernard, depending on how annoyed he is with me."

"Or whether I want to break your neck at the time or not." Christine seriously hoped that Erik was joking, though there was a steely edge in his speech that she recognised from somewhere, and that she had quickly learned to be wary of.

Jules seemed to have noticed this, since he smiled nervously and edged away. Hoping to avoid any argument, she quickly broke in, "I have been wondering, Monsieur…Bonejangles; why do they call you that in the first place?"

The man looked relieved at her voice of reason cutting in. "Why, miss, it was me nickname up top – I always used to jangle lots of bones in my profession!"

"And what was that?" she inquired tentatively, taking an experimental sniff of her drink.

"A grave digger," came Jules's answer, his lips stretched wide in a grin which revealed many tombstone teeth.

"Oh." For something to do, to break the awkwardness of the moment, she unthinkingly took a swig from her glass. To her surprise it did not taste like spirits at all; rather it had a fruity taste, not unlike apples, but rather the juice that came from biting directly into one, crisp and sweet upon the tongue.

"_Mmm!"_ The murmur unconsciously came out of her at the taste.

"Well, it appears that at least _someone _likes my produce, eh, Erik?" Jules shot daringly at Erik.

"Oh, just go away, Jules," Erik said, waving his hand. "If I have to drink in your little 'pub', I should be able to do it without you blaring in my face all the time."

Jules gave a little mocking bow. "But of course, milord Phantom." He paused, and then added. "Milord Corpse Groom."

_Corpse Groom? Does he know?_

"What did he mean by that?" Christine asked feverishly, as she watched him walk back to the bar.

"I have no idea. Come on; we had better leave while no one is watching us." As he spoke, he stood up, pushing away his untouched drink, and stretching out a hand for her to take. Confused, though not exactly reluctant to leave herself, she stood up, discarding her own glass, and reached out to take his hand…

"_Hey!"_

Instinctively the two started; Erik at once seemed to forget about her hand and instead dragged her behind him as he glared in the direction from where Jules's voice had come. Peeping out and around his form in astonishment, she saw that Jules was not accusing them of leaving – he was in fact standing on a bar stool, waving his arms in the air. He looked for all the world like an amateur opera singer, about to burst into song. The band in a corner seemed to be limbering up to accompany him, having abandoned their old tune.

"Erik – what…?" But her living – or rather not – shield did not seem to be paying any attention to her; and at that moment Jules burst into song, accompanied by a strange, almost discordant tune, that nonetheless rang in her ears with hidden harmonies.

"_Hey, give me a listen,_

_You corpses of cheer;_

_At least those of you _

_Who still have an ear,_

_I'll tell you a story_

_To make a skeleton swoon_

_Of our own jubilantly_

_Darkling Corpse Groom!" _

Christine gasped. So Jules _was_ talking about Erik! She craned her neck to look up at Erik's face; he seemed impassive to the stares he was getting from the other patrons – and some of the stares were not too friendly. Why was Jules doing this? Why didn't Erik run? But already some who were sitting near Jules perch were joining in, with the morbid chorus to this macabre song.

"_Die, die,_

_We all pass away,_

_Don't wear that frown, there's not much to say;_

_You might try and hide_

_And you might try to pray _

_But we all end up_

_The remains of the day!"_

_Oh, God! _Such a song she had never heard before! It was so terrible – and yet…yet true and the same time! Unconsciously she herself tried to hide, behind Erik – for she was the only one in the room who was not yet 'the remains of the day', and she wanted to keep it that way.

But Jules was grinning, as he opened his mouth to sing again. _Oh, _why_ doesn't he have better sense?_

"_Well, our groom was a strange one_

_Known for miles around,_

_Known and shunned through all of the town;_

_He was full up of brain, _

_But not so of heart _

_And our poor little hero _

_Didn't know where to start!_

_Then his best friend said_

_He needed someone by his side_

_So our groom soon found himself betrothed to a bride!"_

_A **bride?** _Christine thought as if her heart had stopped beating within her chest at those words. But already the horrible chorus was pounding through her head again. She wanted to take her head in both hands to make it stop.

"_Die, die,  
We all pass away,  
Don't wear a frown, 'cause there's not much to say;  
You might try and hide  
And you might try to pray  
But we all end up  
The remains of the day!" _

Oh, it was _horrible! _She wanted to get away, to run away so badly! Feverishly she plucked at Erik's sleeve, whispered his name frantically, almost pleading. But he seemed rooted to the spot, clinging on to his chair for support, his eyes staring at nothing; and she could only cower back as the song continued _  
_  
_"So, there he was, on the blessed day,  
Ready to wave all his troubles away,  
Now he had on his finger a golden ring,  
In order to offer **her** everything!  
But suddenly there came, so they say in these parts,  
His friend and **his **friends, with death in their hearts!"_

_God. God. Oh God. _Now she knew why Erik was behaving like this – it was as if someone was stepping over his grave, literally. But she couldn't bear this; she couldn't!

"Erik!" she hissed. "We can't stay here!" Come quickly, while there is still time!" She had a dreadful feeling in her gut that if she listened to the rest of the song, the consequences would not be good; but she could not get Erik to move. He had half sunk down into the chair now. His eyes were wide and unseeing; he looked more like a corpse than ever. His now skeletal hand clasped the chair; the other unwittingly scraped the table with its fingernails. She could only listen in despair, and Jules sang on, in that now hateful voice of his.

"_Then he ran to the graveyard, by the old oak tree,  
Perhaps hoping to gain sanctuary?  
He was stabbed in the side  
But where could he flee?" _

"_And then?" _came a sibilant hiss from the audience, as they swayed to the intoxicating music in delight.

"_He waited," _Jules hummed in reply; a curious smile upon his lips. God, how it made her shudder to see it!

"_And then?" _

_There in the shadows, was it a man?" _

_Let me get out of here, please; _please_ let me out of here._ She wished that she might sink under the earth, if only it would stop the singing.

"_His heart beat soured loud!" _

"_And then?" _The audience seemed to fairly yowl with triumph.

"_And then, my lovelies," _Jules grinned again, as his voice seemed to shake her very soul,_ everything…went…black."_

_Please, let it be over. I can't take it any more. _In her fear and dread, she even shrank away from Erik, who was now visibly trembling. Her heart was hammering so she had tried to seize it in her hands to make it be still; but she was so afraid by now she hardly paid any heed to it.

"_Now when he opened his eyes,_

_He was dead as dust,_

_His ring was missing _

_And his heart was bust;_

_So he made a vow, lying under that tree_

_That he'd wait for his true love to come set him free!"_

Those around her had started to clap in time to the tune; but their claps were hardly louder in her ears than her own heart beat. It was as if the blood rhythm of her own head was trying to beat her very brains out, to drive the blood right out of her body! The smiles all around, the knowing glances at her – she couldn't bear it! She thought she would go mad with it! The darkness besides the shadows seemed to be closing in on her, drowning her, smothering her…

"_Always waiting for someone to share in his world;_

_When out of the blue comes this _beautiful_ girl!"_

Jules's finger pointed straight at her, like a spear or sword transfixing her to the wall behind her, piercing her to the stomach and the heart and the brain. She felt like retching – she had to get out – she had to get the sickness out of her. She felt so, _so_ filthy, with all eyes upon her, the smiles like jagged crescent moons; the eyes like beacons alighting upon all the stains of her soul! She backed away from them, from their gazes, their smile, and the shadows; she wanted to plead with Erik to protect her, but it seemed as if he couldn't even protect himself against the attacks!

"_Who vows forever to share his tomb;_

_And that's the story of our **Corpse Groom!"**_

_No! No! No!_

_Run._

Her skirts whispered and then shrieked around her as she turned – some way, _any_ way out – her feet met steps and she scrambled upwards, her hands landing on boards, running up the stairs on all floors like a child, no longer caring. She had to get away; away from the singing and the smiles and the darkness; and away from _everything! _The awful chorus still echoed in her ears as she ran and scrambled and crawled, even though no one made any attempt to stop her. She wanted to stop her ears, but she had to run! And with that she reached the top of the stairs, and burst out into what one might call the sunlight; and she ran and ran; any way so long as it would stop that music in her head; stop the laughter and whooping; stop everything she had seen and heard in that cellar. But she couldn't stop herself hearing the chorus for one last time.

"_Die, die,  
We all pass away,  
Don't wear a frown, 'cause there's not much to say;  
You might try and hide  
And you might try to pray  
But we all end up  
The remains of the day!" _

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Oh, dear. Christine's first trip to the necropolis isn't going very well, is it? You might think she's a wimp for running away, but it is a slightly macabre song; and after all that's what Victor did as well! Then again Victor managed to set his future mother-in-law's dress on fire, so perhaps it isn't a very fair comparison! I admit I made up that bit about everyone dancing in that square back there; but I did make a tribute to all of those who loved Bonejangles in the film – I combined Kay and Burton into one; and the milky eye is a nod to the film Bonejangles's missing one.**

**I am willing to admit that the reworked 'Remains of the Day' is not as good as the film one; but unfortunately I had to do a little reworking anyway so it would fit into the story – because it's no good singing about a 'Corpse Bride' if you've got a Corpse Groom on your hands, now have you?**

**There was something else I wanted to say, but I've forgotten it. Oh well. Maybe next time I post – which won't be for a while, as we're going to see my sister in her university, yay!**

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Reviews for the half-Irish, now embroidering seamstress, please!**


	27. Suffer the children

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, Corpse Bride or any of the work belonging to a certain man who wrote about a certain code by a certain strange, scary genius.**

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I feel I just have to say it, if only once.**

**SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!**

**In other words, I've seen _it._**

_**Whee.**_

**All right, enough excitement; on with the story. Hooray for Richard III, although he's not in this chapter. And Danny Elfman. And Corpse Bride. And roller coaster water rides in gondolas. And Corpse Bride. And all Phantom writers. And Corpse Bride. You can tell I like the film, don't you?**

**Oh, yeah…quite a lot of this chapter is rather angsty. And brutal. And eventually, you might want to just castrate the person who caused all the horror and blood and suffering.**

**So, yes. Enjoy.**

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Suffer the Children

'**Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them, because the Kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I assure you that whoever does not receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it.'**

**Mark, Chapter 10, verses 14-15**

Jacques crashed over the top of the bar, landing on the other side with a loud crunch of breaking glass. He looked up at Erik, shocked and more than slightly bewildered.

"What was _that_ for?"

But Erik was already turning to run, to run after her, to try to _explain. _Something akin to a pulse was beating in his brain; he was dimly aware that it was horror.

_What must she be _thinking?

"Be glad I don't have time to deal with you as you deserve!" he shot back over his shoulder, as he pushed his way through the shocked onlookers and clambered up the stairs.

_Christine! Christine, come back! Come back!_

He hauled himself up and out into the street, just in time to see a figure in billowing red streaking away along the pavement, the cloak billowing out behind, brown hair flying. At once he was off the stairs and running after, feeling his own cloak tug and stretch at his shoulders, gaining ground with every step.

"Christine!"

If she heard him, she paid no heed, instead her speed seemed to increase. But he did not tire, his muscles no longer needed to rest nor complain, and in an instant he leapt forward and grasped her outstretched arm, pulling her back roughly to face him.

At once her other arm hit him across the face. He felt no pain, but his ears shrank at the sound of her shrieks, high and tearing in their accusation, and his eyes were scarred with the sight of hers, wild with anger and shame and horror.

"_How could you let them _do _that? How _could _you? They were all staring at me and leering – and you, you just sat there and let them sing-"_

"Christine!" he hissed, pulling her more violently to him, trying to calm her, while not feeling at all tranquil himself. "Christine, I didn't know Jacques was going to do that, I swear, I swear it, I had no idea…"

She looked up at him, calmer now, but her eyes full of hurt and pain. "But why…" she muttered, and then suddenly slumped forwards in his harsh embrace, her reproaching eyes – to his relief - closing, if only for the moment. It would seem her long time without sleep was beginning to tell on her after all.

He couldn't stay here; not with an unconscious Christine in his arms, and a pub-ful of curious people sure to be advancing even now to find out the cause of his outburst, in the middle of a street of the City of the Dead. But he couldn't take her back to the lair, either, it was too far, and risky with her unconscious, and he needed somewhere close, near at hand…

The irony of the situation hit him, as he groaned and concentrated with desperation flooding through his mind – though also a little sinful pleasure at holding Christine so close, as he had not done so for so long.

In a moment, the scenery around them had changed; they were still in the city, but in quite a different street, in one of the quieter areas of the city – opposite, in fact, from a quietly ornate door in the wall of a simple, whitewashed building, in sharp contrast to some of the architecture around it.

_I can't believe I'm doing this, _he thought, as he advanced to the door, and, cradling Christine easily in one arm, rapped on the wood of the door with his left hand.

Almost at once, it seemed, the door was pulled open slightly, and a little face peeped around it and up at him, with wide brown eyes.

He forced a smile to his lips, however little he felt like smiling at the moment.

"Hello, Ayesha. Is Nadir in?"

* * *

Her eyes opened suddenly, in a memory of horror and mortification at what she could recall so far, and her mouth opened to yell – but then she realised that the eyes staring back at her were deep brown, not yellow, so brown they were almost black; but at once they were gone, and she was left staring up at yet another unfamiliar ceiling.

She was lying on a bed, she could feel, a rather comfortable one – but she was tired of waking up on her back in odd, strange places, because of Erik. _Erik! _If he was here, she would give him such a hiding he'd wish he'd stayed dead; or _deader!_ Sucking air into her lungs, she pulled herself up into a sitting position, aware at once of two things; one that she was in a light, airy bedroom designed much more with a child's pleasure than seduction in mind, and two, that the child for whom the room had probably been designed was standing not two paces away, watching her just as warily as she herself felt at the moment.

She was a pretty little girl, was her first thought. She didn't look as if she could be older than eight or nine; probably Arabian or Middle Eastern. Her eyes really were lovely and lustrous, and her heart-shaped face implied that she could have grown to be really beautiful, if only the time to do so had been granted to her – but the barely concealed gash in her throat (Christine hardly started when she saw this, she was so used to the macabre by now) stated plainer than any words how that had not been allowed to happen. She was dressed in a soft pink long sleeved tunic and trousers, and her hair was plaited with matching pink ribbons; she looked very sweet indeed, but however pleasing she was to the eye there was also something slightly _wrong _about her – as if that infantile sweetness had been affected in some unseen way, which nevertheless had stuck.

The two stared at each other for a few moments. Then she, feeling she had to say something, spoke. "Hello." At once she cursed herself for being stupid, since what were the odds that the girl would actually speak French? But she was surprised the next instant when her strange companion replied in slightly clipped and soft but perfectly clear French: "Hallo."

She sat up further. "What's your name?" she asked softly, since she had sensed perhaps even before the girl had spoken that she was extremely shy, and it had taken all of her courage to speak.

It seemed at first that the girl had exhausted her courage, but she seemed to surprise even herself as she uttered, "Ayesha." She drew back a little from the bed.

"That's a lovely name." Christine swung her legs over the side of the bed, and her bare feet touched the marble floor, which was surprisingly warm. She couldn't help looking around, expecting some, any, sign of Erik. But the only people in the room appeared to be her and Ayesha, who was smiling shyly.

"Is Erik around?" she asked, tentatively now. Ayesha shook her head so hard that her plaited hair whirled around her head.

"Oh, no! Erik has gone out! We are in my bedroom! Erik asked me to watch over you until you woke!" Suddenly the little girl darted forward, and clutched at her hand; her fingers felt like butterflies wings brushing her skin. "I'll show you! Come and see!"

Her evident eagerness was so infectious that Christine let herself be dragged off the bed to be shown around the room like a visitor to a grand mansion. She hadn't had much contact with children over the years, but that didn't mean that she was averse to being shown the little treasures that the child had accumulated in her time here – it helped her keep her mind off other things, like the rage that boiled inside her at a certain masked corpse who had evidently run away…

Ayesha, who seemed to have now quite overcome her shyness of this new, grown up lady, pulled her over first to a row of dolls that were arrayed on a miniature sofa, with truly beautiful silken clothes and calm, seraphic expressions; after these were duly exclaimed over – with some real delight, rarely in her childhood had Christine ever owned anything quite this fine – and the favourite one's hair and clothes were admired, she was then gently dragged over to a bookcase crammed with leather bound books, filled with fables and fairytales enough to delight any child.

"You are a very lucky girl," Christine said, sincerely, as she crouched down – another action her new dress allowed that her old costumes did not – to examine the names of the books, "to have so many lovely things."

"I know," Ayesha replied, hugging Fatima, who had seen fit to accompany them from the settee, to her chest. "Nadir is very kind to me. He gave me all this."

_Nadir? _Christine sat upright, recalling the name of the intruder to the lair, with the slit throat. If she was in Nadir's house – one who wanted to return her home – what could this mean? _Perhaps he can help me! _

To hide her sudden confusion, she asked swiftly, "Is Nadir your father?" She had doubts on that; from what she could remember of him the two did not resemble each other in many ways – apart from the obvious one – but there was no harm in asking.

Ayesha shook her head. "No. I never had a father." She suddenly looked very lost and alone, standing there clutching her doll to her.

_I shouldn't be doing this, _Christine thought; but unthinkingly she asked "Don't you remember your parents? Before…" she could not bring herself to speak the words. Did the little girl even understand what she was now? Did she know what 'dead' meant?

"I never had a mother or a father," Ayesha said flatly; but before Christine could apologise she went on speaking. "I can't remember them. But I can remember him."

"Him?" The look in the girl's eyes was starting to unnerve her. She seemed to be looking right through her.

"The man. The bad man." _She's shaking, _she thought dumbly, as she could do nothing but stare. "The one who hurt me."

"_Hurt_ you?" Instinctively Christine reached out to her, but at once Ayesha flinched away. "What…what did he do?"

"He…he…" Ayesha was now visibly trembling. "He made me lie on my back and he tore me inside. I could feel things inside me break. And then there was sharpness…"

_Oh, God. _She sat back on her heels, speechless. Now she knew just how Ayesha had been 'hurt'. _Oh, oh God._

Ayesha suddenly looked at her, and she flinched away herself at that gaze, that trembling, inquiring gaze, that seemed to cut and tear and hold inside her very soul. "What did he do to me?" she asked, in a small voice. "Do you know what he did to me? Why will nobody _tell_ me?"

"Ayesha!"

Both of them jumped, and looked over to the door, where a figure Christine remembered all too well was standing, his gaze fixed on them. "I'm back, Ayesha! Would you like some almond cakes?"

At once Ayesha gave a squeal of joy, and dashed off across the floor towards the door, her former horror seemingly forgotten. Christine rose rather more slowly, not taking her eyes off Nadir. As Ayesha met him by throwing her arms, complete with doll, around his waist, he gave her a wan smile.

"Would you care to join us, Mademoiselle Daaé?"

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The coffee, served in strange cups that were hard for Christine to handle, was not at all like coffee she had tasted. It had a different taste altogether, but she was tired of discerning all the things that were different here. Everything was different. She was sitting drinking coffee with a foreign spirit, in a pillared marble garden deep under the earth, with artificial flowers and trees.

_Yes, everything is different._

She watched as Ayesha sat on the steps that led up to the pavilion Nadir had led her to and which they were at the moment sitting in, a little way away, holding an empty cup to Fatima's lips, and alternately feeding her crumbs of almond cake and some sort of mixture made partly of honey and pistachios, called gaz. She chattered to the doll happily, as if they were the only two people in the room, and as if Fatima was really alive…

"She told you, then?"

She dragged her eyes away from the little girl to look at Nadir, who was holding a coffee cup of his own, but making no attempts to drink it. His jade green gaze was disconcerting, and she had to work hard not to let her eyes wander to his slit throat, which both attracted and repelled her gaze.

"It was confused, but…I have an idea."

"So do I." Nadir looked at Ayesha for a moment, then back at her. "What was your idea?"

"Why should I tell? You already seem to know."

He sighed, placing his cup back down on the marble table. "You are shrewd, Mademoiselle. Very well then, I will tell you. From what I was able to gather and fathom, Ayesha was sold by her parents when she was very young indeed, to be trained as an odalisque – a concubine, a legalised kept woman, if you will. She was intended to be a tool of pleasure, when she was grown."

Christine had to put down the hot coffee, her hand was shaking so much. "That's…that's horrible."

"An ancient custom, Mademoiselle, and one that probably continues even now. I believe that practise is not unheard of in France," Nadir said smoothly.

"But to be sold into it, so young!"

"I am not saying it was a pleasant custom – or a pleasant fate." But the merest tremor came into his voice, as he continued. "Unfortunately for Ayesha, it would seem that someone was not willing to wait that long. First he…used her for his own pleasure, and then…he used her again. In a different way." The dead man's eyes now looked agonized. "The ultimate submission."

"I am sorry monsieur, I don't understand you." But she had an inkling that she did, from the tales she had heard whispered in the kitchens, and she was thoroughly appalled, as she looked again at the sunny little girl, making the doll 'dance' now that she had finished feeding her. The horror was slowly freezing through her veins. What must such an ordeal have _done_ to her?

"Of that I am glad. But he was not finished," Nadir said, even more softly, however much she willed this to end, to finish. "I know that, at the height of his own pleasure, he…well. You can see what he did." He gestured to his own throat. "It is called _Ghayat assa'adah. _The ultimate pleasure."

_Oh my God!_ Christine half shot up, slamming her fists into the table in fury, knocking over her chair. "That…that _foul_…that _evil_…how could he do such a thing? How _could _he?" She could feel the tears beading at the corners of her eyes; feel the disgust and horror that such a wicked sin could be committed. She was just a girl. A _girl._ And to do that…to use her in that way…that was the most terrible thing that could ever be imagined, the worst crime that could ever be conceived.

"Please – Mademoiselle!" Nadir put his hand on her arm, pulling her back down, slipping her chair back under her, holding her gently by the wrists. "Please, you'll frighten her." He smiled reassuringly at Ayesha, who was looking scared by her outburst, before turning back to her, as she breathed deeply to calm herself. "But I understand your rage. When I discovered Ayesha, when I found her shrieking in some corner of this realm, driven insane – her very _soul_ gone mad with what had been done to her – when I learned what she had endured, all unknowing, I felt the same as you. I wished then, more than ever, that I could be alive again, if only to go after the one who used her in such a way and make him suffer for it before he died."

"But you couldn't."

"I couldn't. So instead, I took her in." He looked again at his little charge, playing again with her doll. "I helped her to recover, however long a period of time it took. She doesn't really understand what happened to her, and I try not to bring it up. I try to keep her happy, and it seems that she is happy."

"And so are you."

He was unabashed. "You are very shrewd, Mademoiselle Christine. Yes, I keep her beside me because she makes me happy as well. When I was…alive," he faltered only a little at the word, "I had a young wife, who was pregnant. But I was killed, murdered, before our child was born." The sadness in his eyes was like a knife in the heart. "I never knew what happened to either of them. I have never found them. I like to think that, I f I had had a daughter, she would have been as sweet and brave and kind as Ayesha. Erik loves her as well, as well as he can love anything."

The silence that followed was suddenly very acute, especially with Ayesha's happy play dropping into it like a stone. To break it, she asked hastily, "And where is he now, Monsieur?" She still felt anger towards him, of course, but he really was the only person she knew in this strange, mysterious place – and the only one wit ha true, corporal form, no matter what she felt towards him at the moment.

_Or what I want to do to him._

"I do not know. But I believe he will be back soon."

"Oh. Thank you."

She was fully aware of Nadir's look of pity as she turned away from the table, and her mainly untouched coffee and cakes. Somehow, she found her steps drawing her towards Ayesha, now hugging her doll.

_How can I approach her, now? How can I think around her, when all I can think of is what has been done to her?_

By now she had reached the little girl, practically looking over her shoulder. Ayesha, aware of her presence, turned around to smile up at her, no remembrance of horror in her face anywhere in her sunny little face. It was almost frightening, but at the same time…slightly reassuring.

Christine, however, was more and more withdrawn. She could think of nothing, nothing to say, except, "Fatima is really very pretty." _Weak!_

Ayesha nodded eagerly. "She is." She paused, before adding shyly, "But not nearly as pretty as you."

She felt herself smile, as she sat down beside her. "Oh, I'm not really that pretty." Behind her, she heard Nadir's footsteps clip away across the marble floor, moving away from them.

"Yes you are," Ayesha said stoutly. She paused again, before asking, matter-of-factly, "Are you Erik's bride?"

The question caught her completely off guard. "What! No! No, of course not!" came out before she had time to think. Ayesha's quiet stare very swiftly calmed her, and she had time to think of her next words. "What makes you say that."

"Because whenever he speaks of his bride, his eyes light up, though they hardly ever do otherwise. But when he looks at you, his eyes light up all the time." Ayesha stroked the hair of her doll, thoughtfully.

"Well, I'm not Erik's bride," Christine stated firmly, to get the point home. _Nip this in the bud!_

"Oh." Ayesha seemed to think for a moment, and then looked up at her again. "Are you going to be Erik's bride?"

_Of course not. Never. Why should I be? I'm already engaged. I have a fiancée. I couldn't marry him…_

These were all things her mind shouted out, or at least one part of it.

To her own deep surprise – and perhaps the tiniest part of satisfaction – her lips said, "Perhaps."

Ayesha nodded again, more sedately this time. "I thought you might be."

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I got the whole idea of Ayesha's fate from Dan Brown's _Angels and Demons – _quite a good book, better I think than _The Da Vinci Code_ – if you want to know what the 'ultimate pleasure' is, read the book, because I'm not sketching it out for you.**

**I'm _reaaaaally _sorry I haven't updated for so long, but I reckoned without the school work. Consequently this is rather rushed; I just wanted to get Ayesha introduced and everything, so apologies if it's not up to your usual standard. I may edit it later on; if I have time.**

**Also, I'm aware of the fact that quite a lot of my chapters have been Christine centred, whenever we're down in the underworld. So, next chapter – or maybe the chapter after that, depending on whether we're going back up to the surface or not – I promise a whole chapter (and hopefully a fairly long one) narrated entirely be Erik! Which will be a first, I think.**

**Until then, my loyal reviewers, so long until next crime!**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	28. A Varied Seat

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, or Corpse Bride, or the Arabian Nights. If I did, I would be very rich and very dead, since at least two of them were made before even my _dad_ was alive, let alone me.**

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So, we have a Situation. With a capital S. It's just that much of a Situation. Hee hee.**

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…**So come, little child, cuddle closer to me**

**In your dainty white nightcap and gown,**

**And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree**

**In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.**

**Excerpt from 'The Sugar-Plum Tree' by Eugene Field**

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…**She will not stay the siege of loving terms,**

**Nor bide th'encounter of assailing eyes,**

**Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.**

**O, she is rich in beauty, only poor**

**That when she dies, with beauty dies her store.**

**Romeo and Juliet, Act One, Scene One.**

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A Varied Seat

He had come back to the door set in the whitewashed wall much sooner than he had expected or wanted. For more than one reason, he was very reluctant to encounter the lovely burden he had left in Ayesha's room any time soon, especially since she was probably awake by now.

Silently he cursed his cowardice, his own pig-headedness, for leaving her alone. Who knew what could have happened, what she could have done?

_It's all been ruined…_

_Thanks to Jules._ There, at least, Erik could find something to smile about. He knew for a fact that Jules would not be blurting out any secrets in atrocious songs any time soon.

Nadir opened the door before he even had a chance to knock.

"Oh," he said unpleasantly. "So you're back again, are you? Where have you been?"

"Walking…thinking." He stepped over the threshold, causing Nadir to have to stand back. "Paying a visit to Jules, and talking to him about certain things; like how inadvisable it is to discuss other people's lives at large."

Nadir sighed. "Erik…"

"Don't make such a fuss, Nadir. It isn't as if I could do anything very terrible to him in any case – just as you yourself have remarked upon."

"But, Erik-"

"He can still talk, Nadir. Which might be more of a liability than a blessing, but there it is."

He had to pause for a long moment to summon his courage for what he wished to say next.

"How…how is she?"

Nadir's expression was now unreadable. "You'll see." He extended his arm, in the direction of the main garden, which the entrance hall led into.

He looked over to where Nadir was pointed, and it was as if his un-dead heart had suddenly started beating again.

Christine sat on an elaborately carved seat at the far end of the garden, Ayesha in her lap, her arms encircled around the girl's shoulders and her lovely curly hair pulled over to one shoulder and trailing down onto the pages on the book she held in front of Ayesha. Her head was bent over the child's shoulder as she whispered something, and smiled to hear the resultant giggle in a way to pull him ever closer, towards the entrance to the garden, longing above all else to be held in that embrace, feel those arms around him, feel her hair tickle his skin, have her whisper in his ear and smile at his words.

But he couldn't. Because she wouldn't. She never would now…

Then her lips began to move, and her beautiful voice echoed around him, flowed over him like a soothing balm, healing all his woes. He listened in bliss to her words, yet he was certainly not expected for what she said:

"But when the youngest Prince – the King's favourite son – fired his arrow over the city, it fell among the thatches and tiles on to a wholly unremarkable house occupied by no one but a large and lonely tortoise."

He had to stifle a smirk, as he listened to her voice deepen in a slightly absurd manner, earning a laugh from Ayesha. "_'Shoot again,' _said the King,as hurriedly as a cat climbs out of water. _'Allah has made a slight mistake.'_"

Ayesha, still giggling, tilted her head to look up in wonder at Christine's face, marvelling, no doubt, at the way the young woman could manipulate her voice so well. He was impressed himself; he knew full well of the beauty of her voice, but he was only just becoming aware of its dexterity as well. Though there was something vaguely familiar about the voice she was using…

But already she was speaking again, "Please, Ayesha _cherie, _keep still. I can't tell the story with you squirming all over the place." She spoke with gentleness, but it was obvious that she expected to be obeyed.

"Sorry, Christine." At once Ayesha swivelled back to her original position, her eyes on the pages, determined not to be cheated of her story.

"That's better." Christine turned her attention back to the book. "But the second arrow fell on the self-same house. _'Shoot again,'_" she went on, altering her voice once more. That strange, deep voice coming out of that pert mouth seemed so strange, and yet the voice itself somehow seemed familiar, "said the King, as hurriedly as a cat climbs out of fire. _'Allah has made a terrible mistake.'_"

Ayesha laughed out loud at that. "You sound just like Nadir!"

So that was it! He wondered how he could not have realised it before; that deep, accented voice was undoubtedly an almost perfect mimic of Nadir's own solemn tone! It was deliciously funny, all the more so as he shot a snide glance at Nadir's own puzzled face, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. With a quiet chuckle, he turned his eyes back to the little duo on the seat – only to be fixed with Christine's soft brown gaze in that moment, as she jerked her head up at the unexpected sound.

He had expected her to start up, to shout at him, as she had done earlier when he had caught up with her in the street, but perhaps she surprised the both of them by doing no more than looking at him coolly for a moment, before turning her attention back to Ayesha, who was still wrapped up in the story, and waiting avidly for the next part.

"But the third arrow fell on the very same house, to the excitement of the large and lonely tortoise inside. _'Either tell me the King's wishes,'_" she went on, now readjusting her voice to a slower monotone, suited to a talking reptile, "_'or stop shooting arrows into my roof,' _she said as the foot-pages arrived with ladders to retrieve the third arrow."

_If only _she _had read to stories to me when I was little, I would have had a blessed childhood indeed, _he thought; but he quickly squashed his musings. Nobody could replace his mother. Not even Christine. She was something else to him entirely.

"It's enough to make you want to be in her lap yourself, isn't it?" he remarked quietly to Nadir, who raised a suspicious eyebrow.

"In what way, Erik?"

_What? _"Is there more than one?" he asked confusedly, just before he understood.

_Oh._

Nadir had the grace to look away from his face, embarrassed by the misunderstanding.

"Surely you would have thought I meant _listening_ to her telling you a story, Nadir?"he asked, trying to mask his own sudden embarrassment and annoyance – perhaps even anger – at the Persian. To assume he would speak about _Christine _in such a crude fashion? Oh, lord, how could even _he _think of her in such a way?

"Not that I haven't been in her lap already," he added sullenly, turning away. Well, it appeared that he could speak of it, in a certain context.

"_What?" _Nadir hissed, under his breath, suddenly looking even more panicked than he had before. "Erik, what have you-"

"Oh, do be quiet, Daroga," he muttered, secretly enjoyed the other's distress. "I told you earlier, I haven't so much as touched her in that way." _Well…not much, _his mind amended, as he thought of the occasion just before his one and only time of lying in Christine's aforementioned lap, albeit in a quite different way from Nadir's hypothesizing.

Nadir's head tilted to one side, as he apparently remembered what Erik had told him by the river, but his lips were set in a scowl. "Erik, this truly cannot go on. It simply _cannot."_

"Can you _never _say anything else? I'm surprised that you don't know by now, old friend, that if there's one thing I don't like it's being told I _can't _do something. And a good deal of incessant nagging _this _late in the day isn't going to change my mind one bit!"

A turn on his heel in what he was sure was a petulant manner left Nadir far behind, and that beautiful, sibilant being whom he could barely dare to think of without both longing and apprehension stirring in his mind. Instead, he chose to look out upon another of the gardens that Nadir had fashioned; one with trickling fountains and dripping water, creating a pleasing effect, and also drowning out any sounds he might hear from the adjoining garden. He didn't think he was ready to face its occupants again, just yet.

_Idiotic fool! _he thought savagely, and even here the waters in the elaborate fountain began to hiss, fuelled by his annoyance, bordering on anger. How _dare_ he tell him what to do, even now? It was ridiculous! He wasn't a lost, confused, more-than-a-little-frightened spirit anymore; he was strong, he knew what he was doing, and he was powerful…oh, so powerful, so strong. He was greater than all of this, and he knew it, and Nadir knew it; everyone should know it!

But gradually the hissing of the water died down, as he calmed himself, aware at the same time of the song that was becoming more audible from next door…

…_that song…_

"_O sister, can you guess_

_How deep in love I am?_

_Or why Allah should bless_

_A woman with a man?"_

As if in a dream, he made his way back into the main garden, drawn by the beautiful song, and the voice which shaped it.

"_And such a man as he!"_

Christine, it seemed, had finished the story, and was now improvising upon one of the songs from the book, in her lovely, lilting singing voice. Ayesha, utterly enchanted, was clapping softly in time to the flow of Christine's voice as she looked up in wonder from her seat on the young woman's knees, evident adoration on her face, as Christine smiled down at her even as she sang.

"_Who thunders like a weir_

_In the river of my blood_

_And drowns every fear_

_In his white, courageous flood!"_

Even Nadir seemed captivated by the lovely girl, as he sat staring on another bench, his mouth moving slightly to the words. But surely his friend could not be as captivated as himself. When hearing _her_ voice, that angelic voice, raised in song, he could easily believe that it was able to carry off what remained of his soul.

"_What love could equal mine,_

_The happiest of happy brides?_

_Not ninety-nine times nine_

_Who loved until the sea's last tide."_

But even the beauty of the voice did not detract from the cruel irony of the song. _The happiest of happy brides? _Surely _she _would not sing such a thing willingly!

Slowly he raised his hands as her voice died away, and brought them together, the flesh of his right ringing against the bone as well as the flesh of his left; a dead man applauding a living beauty. The applause at once shattered the peace and serenity of the garden – all three looked up in shock at the intrusion, the smile in particular departed from Christine's face, to be replaced with a sullen expression. Nadir wore his habitual inquisitive look once more, the ecstasy quickly gone. But it was Ayesha who certainly reacted the most-

"Erik!" He only just had time to put out his arms before Ayesha slammed into him; at once he wrapped them around her soft, slight little form and lifted her up into the air, as her own arms wrapped around his neck. He was able to see, from what he could of the world beyond Ayesha's immediate attentions, that Christine was looking even sulkier, and slamming the book shut as if she suddenly hated it.

"Erik?" He turned his eyes back to Ayesha's little face, which was now filled with curiosity. "You're different, Erik."

At once Nadir had stood up and was scooping Ayesha out of his arms. "Come on, Ayesha dear, I think Fatima's tired. Shall we put her to bed?"

Ayesha, distracted as only a seven year old could be, dead or not, wriggled in acquiescence, and Nadir's swift steps carried them over to the couch to pick up the doll from the unmoving Christine, and then out of the room; but as Nadir carried his burden out through the doorway he shot a warning glance over her shoulder and the crown of Ayesha's head at Erik.

_Well, at least he trusts me enough to leave me alone with her now._

Christine, meanwhile, now looked down at the book she still held in her hands. He could hear that her breathing had grown harsher and deeper, as if trying to control herself, and her heartbeat had increased. All in all, many hours of trust had come undone, and would have to be painstakingly rebuilt again.

_Two steps forward, one step back._

"If only you had had the proper lessons, you could have been the star of any stage in the world," he said softly.

She snorted; such a fascinating sound – so unladylike, and yet so refined! "If only my impending marriage had not already mapped out my life for me, perhaps it could have been."

She looked up with sudden alarm at his soft approach, strands of hair falling across her brow. He longed with a fierce, desperate urge to run his fingers through that glorious hair, feel if it was soft or dry, caress that skin to feel its softness against his fingers. It was with difficulty that he placed his hand upon the carved stead of the seat instead – but quite near her head, so that he could reach out and stroke the glossy strands without her noticing, to placate himself.

"You are angry with me."

"You can tell that easily?" She leant forward, almost as if she knew of his plan, and wished to stall it as much as possible.

"Yes, I can. Why?"

"When were you going to tell me? _Were _you going to tell me?" she asked, softer now and her evident anger less restrained. "About your former bride-to-be? About your death? About-"

"I believe I have the right to some privacy concerning my former life. Which was partly why I was so annoyed at Jules for blurting it all out like that, in front of all and sundry. I trusted him. It seems that my trust was misplaced."

"So you tell an untrustworthy spirit, but you neglected to tell your supposed bride-to-be?"

"Oh, so now you _do _wish to become my bride?" He chuckled inwardly at the ire he obviously was raising in her, but he was not quite prepared for her reaction of shooting up off the bench, her eyes hard and her voice, when it came, almost choked with frustration.

"That isn't what I meant _at all, _you…you…_ooooohhhh," _she ground out, her words almost becoming a snarl. "No, I _don't _wish to be your bride! Especially now! What am I to you, Erik, merely a _replacement?_ A trophy bride in the underworld, to make up for the one you couldn't have on earth? You dragged me all the way down here, away from my friends and Raoul, and for what? Merely so that you _can _be married! You don't care about me at all, you say you love me, but you don't, you can't-"

"And why should you care, if you don't wish to marry me?" His words were calm, but he felt the rage inside him again, for himself. _Why have I done this to her? Why have I allowed her to come to believe this?_

But his words seemed to snap something inside Christine. With a shrill noise shrieking from her throat, she struck out at him; her sharp nails caught him on one cheek, and one actually tore it, taking away some of the skin and whatever was underneath it with it. He felt the contact and even the tearing, but not the pain, since all that he was aware of was Christine, and the tears beading at the corners of her eyes, and the way she disregarded the skin and flesh under her nails as she glared at him.

"You're vile and wicked and cruel, and I hate you! _I hate you! _Before you came into my life I was happy, and then you ruined it all-"

"Were you?"

She stared up at him, momentarily halted by his simple statement. "Was I…what?"

"Happy. _'The happiest of happy brides.' _Were you?"

He watched the anger slowly drain out of her. She looked as if she was trying to remember something, something painful. When her voice came again, it was terrible to hear the lost air in the words, no matter how hard she tried to sound definitive.

"I…of _course_ I was happy! I was going to marry Raoul…I was going to be a Vicomtess…I _am _going to marry Raoul! I had everything!"

"Mmmm." He nodded, supportively, even as his mind blazed at the thought of the _De Chagny. _"So, were you happy, Christine?"

"I…I…" Slowly she half-sank onto the bench again, as if the longer she could not answer the question, the more her strength was drained from her.

"How do you manage to do this?" she muttered, as she stared at her hands once again. "How do you always manage to do this to me?"

"Annoying you beyond endurance, or reading your mind?" he asked, crouching down beside her. Even at this level, he seemed so much larger than her – especially since she now seemed to be deflated in defeat. She was so small – from her, if he wrapped his arms around her, he would probably be able to envelope her whole body in his.

"Both." With a sigh, she allowed her head to rest on his shoulder, so that the crown of her head brushed the mask. "You truly are a unique individual, monsieur."

Her touch, however unplanned, set a fire alight within his chest. He could see her eyes glistening. He would not see her cry again. Not now. "Oh, indeed. I wager you would have lots of fun with me," came his reply, as calm as he could make it.

"What could the underworld give me that the earth could not?"

_What, indeed? Perhaps the happiness that you have lost?_

"Music? A chance to sing again? With me?"

"You flatter yourself, Erik. I would not stay under the earth simply for your voice." But there was indecision there. Curiosity, begging to know more, wondering whether perhaps that could be her desire…

"What about staying for the greatest ventriloquist that ever lived?" Another snort, but this time of laughter, came from the head that rested so near him; he felt the spurt of temporarily hot breath reach through his waistcoat and to his skin.

"You're laughing…perhaps you don't believe me? Listen." It was a simple manner to manipulate his voice. "You see my lips, such lips as I have? They do not move, my mouth is closed – and yet you hear my voice!"

"That is not very special, all things considered." But he could just see her lips smile as she spoke.

"We shall see. Where will you have it? In your left ear?" It was enjoyable, despite the loss of contact, to see her jerk away from him and look beside her in amazement, and not a little alarm. He decided to play his craft a step further. "In your right ear?" Clearly not expecting the words he had placed right inside her ear, she gave a gasp and shot away from the noise, to land up against his chest.

"In the table? In the scorpion by your foot?" She positively _squealed_ at that, pulling her legs sharply up onto the bench and out of harm's way, before realising that the insect was just a brass ornament set into the paving stone, and shooting him a _very _dirty look.

"You're just doing this to push me into your arms, aren't you?"

"Not quite," he said smoothly, still speaking through the scorpion. "I am just a scorpion. But am I scaring you? Shall I turn and scuttle away?"

"Erik, do stop it!"

The chuckle that he gave came from his mouth again. Christine was just so _delightful_ to confuse at times, it was wonderful! "It is really not so difficult to do, Christine. If you wish, I could teach you."

"Teach me?"

"Your voice is a marvellous instrument, Christine, even if you fail to acknowledge it. Already you show great talent in your manipulation of it. But with training, it could become so much more."

"If you were the one that did the training?" One slanting eyebrow rose, wrinkling her forehead.

"Then perhaps your voice would grow to rival even mine." Perhaps he was boasting, but _he _felt that it was only the truth. After all, she met his exceptionally high standard, but could she surpass it?

Christine sighed. "I suppose it must be." She paused, then added softly, with a mirthless grin, "It's not as if I'm going anywhere."

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And finish. Again, not a particularly good chapter, but one I strove to complete. So, yes. Bit from the book, again. Can you tell which bit? It's like Where's Wally, isn't it? So, definitely back upstairs for the next chapter. Oh, well. C'est la vie.**

**The story Christine is reading Ayesha, _The Prince and the Large and Lonely Tortoise, _is a very good story from One Thousand and One Arabian Nights: a combination of Beauty and the Beast and Cinderella, with romance, magical occurrences, and a rather novel use for pea-soup. All of Christine's story is taken from a very good version of _Nights, _by Geraldine McCaughrean, and the song she sings later is taken from _The Tale of Pearl-Harvest, _from the same book.**

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'**Christmas is comin', and the goose is gettin' _phat!' _(Cue much waving around of hands with various fingers extended. Don't ask for an explanation, 'cos I'm saying _nothing_.)****

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	29. Bath Tubs and Bees

**Disclaimer: I don't. Own. Any. Of. It. I do, however, own my Christmas and birthday presents, which were really rather good this year. So I'm happy.**

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I view this as a belated birthday, Christmas and New Year's present. Yes, I know it's late for _all _of them, but originality is always fun. Anyway, I sometimes used to have my birthday parties in May, since I couldn't have them on the original day. It's really not nice to be born three days after Christmas, you know. Especially taking into account that it also falls on the anniversary of The Massacre of the Innocents.**

**Is it any wonder I'm so depressed?**

**This chapter, we are back up to the surface again. You've had…what was it? _Four chapters down in the underground? _Good grief! I'd forget my own head if it wasn't held on with skin and tendons and things…**

**Well, anyway, we're back upstairs, and with a view of a not so nice, annoyed Carlotta. Uber cow is going to get a look in - but remember, it's only because she's worried and more than slightly annoyed!And into the strange, wonderful world of Victorian women's underwear…fellas, _beware…_**

**Oh, and some more angst, though it's hard to find under all the fluffy lethargy. And potential rib-snapping. Gotta love the potential rib-snapping. **

…**Well, not if it's _your _ribs that are being snapped, of course. That is never nice.**

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Little sparrows with dreams of swans.

**Ancient Chinese Proverb **

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Bathrooms and Bees

Cecile looked at her reflection. She found it hard to believe she was looking at herself.

_I see myself. I see myself!_

Everything felt like a dream, so perhaps it was best to see it as a dream. So: she dreamt that Mademoiselle Daaé had disappeared, and…and in desperation they had turned to her. She had protested at first, but what could she do? What defences did she have? How could she refuse, let alone resist? So she had given in, and let herself be dragged into the plot and the dream. The rose pink dress and winking mask had seduced her.

What had happened after that? It was strange, confused. She could not remember everything that had happened, it was all a blur. Memories of hot water, a bath filled with thick, scented foam, shimmering in a heat haze. It had been so soothing; it had almost lulled her to sleep, she had wanted to sink into the heat and sleep and never have to wake up. But, but, but, then there had been the pinching fingers of Mademoiselle Gudicelli, who had grown impatient and unfastened her clothes herself, almost like a housewife flaying a fish, and had practically picked her up in her arms and dropped her into the tub.

And, and the water had been _hot! _That was not a dream, by any means nor had the Mademoiselle's scrubbing fingers, raking through her scalp, enough to make her whimper in pain despite herself. It had been shameful how they had scrubbed and rubbed at her, without even asking her permission, under her arms and down her back and under her breasts; and Mademoiselle Gudicelli had not been above smacking her on the shoulder when she tried to escape the rasping, scraping nails.

"Hold _still_, will you, _por el amore de Dío?_ If anything you should be doing this for _me,_ not the other way around!"

She had been half joking, but her voice was sharp from her grudge at the hard work; her hair had been falling down around her face and she had been sweating from the heat of the bath. The beads of sweat running down her face had looked like pearls against her honey skin.

_Pearls set in gold…_

Then, and then when they had hoisted her out of the bath and were patting her dry, they had discovered at the cost of at least two sheets that she was in the middle of their monthlies. Meg smiling as she helped her tie the pads into her undergarments again, but her smile all tired and wrong, saying in that sweet, cracked voice, "We can't have you bleeding all over the gown, can we?" But her eyes had told a different story. That pain had been worse than the dull one inside her; this one was new, and fresh.

Because they were all thinking of who was supposed to be wearing it tonight, instead of her. She still could now, even dwelling as she did in her dreams.

She'd been wrapped in a dressing gown, and put in a chair by the large mirror, while Carlotta disappeared and reappeared, with a rather guilty expression on her face and a fairly large bottle in her hand, the contents of which she had applied to Cecile's still damp hair, and then bundled the treated locks up in another towel. Funny, how easily it had become to call her Carlotta, and Meg…well, Meg.

In her dreams, it was as if the roles truly had been reversed. They had waited on her hand and foot. They'd tried to tempt her with sweets, but to punish them for doing all this to her without even asking, she would not, could not, eat. Carlotta had set a plate of petit fours before her, which she had seen the cook making only the day before, but now she didn't even touch one. But then, in frustration, Meg had brought a pot of honey from somewhere unknown, and had drizzled it on her lips. And, and, and she couldn't _help _licking her lips, just once, and then again, and in the end she'd eaten most of the pot, as far as she knew. If she belched, she was certain her breath would smell sticky and sweet. The honey seemed to stick and clot in her limbs and brain, and, and she'd just sat and let them pull her up and back to the bathroom, and pour jug after jug of boiling water over her head while she stood over the bath, only the pain from the water seemed to be very far away. Then, then they'd pulled her back to the mirror, and her hair had changed colour! They'd dyed it! They'd dyed her hair! And they hadn't even _asked!_

She'd wondered, as the day wore on, and other things happened that she couldn't remember, because the honey seemed to have turned her sleepy, why she hadn't been made to do her other duties. She should be doing _this_ for _them_, but instead Meg and Carlotta were attending to each other, and not asking her to do anything. She was just left curled up in a chair, full and warm, like a cat, or being sat up and told to remember something, or be shown something – Carlotta walking, Meg dancing around by herself. Even the pain inside her seemed to have dimmed. But they'd keep coming back to her, and doing things to her. They told her things to remember, but she would only nod, because she knew them already. She knew how she should behave, because she'd seen Mademoiselle Daaé do it so often. She knew what cutlery to use, because she'd set it out on tables so many times before. Ladies seemed to have much freer reign of speech than she did.

She knew something about beekeeping, and something kept ringing around in her head. _They're turning me into a queen. _She's heard about bees feeding other bees royal jelly, to turn them into queens. _They're nobodies until they eat the honey. _When she traced her tongue over her lips, it was as if she could still taste the honey. They were changing her, these two girls. Their queen had gone, so they were making themselves another, at short notice.

_I am going to be a queen._

She looked over her shoulder in the mirror to the lovely dress behind her, laid out across another chair, like a dancer waiting to be picked up and waltzed with. Soon, she would be wearing that beautiful dress, and going down to dance with the handsome Vicomte, and eat with the nobility. She knew she should be scared, but she was too relaxed to be scared.

_No more fear now._

The Cecile in the mirror smiled back at her, framed by unfamiliar brown hair, one eyelid slightly lowered, making her look as if she just delivered a rogue wink. Behind her, Meg was holding onto the bed post, and Carlotta had both hands full of corset strings and was pulling, pulling, making Meg's corset tighter, giving her a wasp waist, while Meg gasped for breath.

_Meg's a wasp. I'm going to be a queen bee._

Cecile raised a hand to her face, and her twin in the mirror did so as well. Though she looked as if she were half asleep, she could still see it – the potential for beauty.

_I was a sparrow. But tonight, I shall be a swan._

The thought made her smile. She'd never seen before how pretty she was when she smiled.

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Rather short again, I know! But don't think 'upstairs' is going to be over! You did, didn't you? You thought you were going back underground again! HA HA! _SUCKERZ!_ Ahem. Yep, _Raoul _next chapter, everybody. Boo and hiss all you like, Raoul haters; it _had _to come sooner or later.**

**This is sort of an expression of myself. You see, I don't really like being pampered and all that stuff. If you offered me a day of being treated at a spa or beauty salon, I would say no, thanks. That's the sort of girl that I am. I mean, I even had my hair cut short so that it would be quicker to dry! No thank you to manicures and makeovers! And _definitely _no to corsets! CORSETS ARE THE DEVIL'S INVENTION! THE DEVIL'S INVENTION, I TELL YOU!**

**And I'm done.**

**Oh, yes; for all you people wondering, in Victorian times women didn't have disposable 'towels' for their monthly problem, so they used to tie pads of cloth into their bloomers or whatever they had for undergarments, and then soak them in salt water afterwards to get rid of the blood.**

**I'm not even going to go into the plumbing system, or the hair dye. Let us just say that I have no idea when taps were first introduced, and Carlotta doesn't like her hair colour.**

**And also that I'm slightly obsessed with Howl's Moving Castle. Hee hee.**

**Well, a hopping mad (and in the film only towel wearing) ginger Howl does stick in the mind. Tee hee hee. **

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	30. Fragile Love

**Disclaimer: Don't own. I've gotten over it by now tolerably well.**

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So, yes, this chapter is a _Raoul _one. And it will be fairly long; I've been doing short chapters for too long.**

**Ye who have waited for Raoul, _rejoice._**

**Ye who do not like him…read it anyway, because there are some bits that you're going to need to know to understand other things later on, all right? **

**_Enjoy._**

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Excerpt from 'The Mistletoe Bough'**

**The Baron beheld with a father's pride**

**His beautiful child, Lord Lovell's bride.**

**And she, with her bright eyes seemed to be**

**The star of that goodly company.**

**Oh, the mistletoe bough.**

**Oh, the mistletoe bough.**

**"I'm weary of dancing, now," she cried;**

**"Here, tarry a moment, I'll hide, I'll hide,**

**And, Lovell, be sure you're the first to trace**

**The clue to my secret hiding place."**

**Away she ran, and her friends began**

**Each tower to search and each nook to scan.**

**And young Lovell cried, "Oh, where do you hide?**

**I'm lonesome without you, my own fair bride."**

**Oh, the mistletoe bough.**

**Oh, the mistletoe bough…**

**Thomas Haynes Bayley (1884)**

**(Needless to say, this poem does _not _have a nice ending****...well, coming from _me,_ you wouldn't really expect anything else, would you?)**

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Fragile love

_Walk down the stairs. Open the door. Meet Buquet. _

He concentrated on the tasks, trying not to think, anything but thinking. If he didn't think, he didn't have to think about Christine _ohGodohGodohGodohGodoh-_

_Stop it. Don't think. Just get to the door._

The grain of the wood upon his fingertips came as a surprise, and he had to quickly pull himself together before he could open it.

At once the cold wind blew in his face, waking him up a little; he narrowed his eyes but could still see Buquet, standing in the doorway, wrapped in his grounds keeper coat.

Raoul didn't know what to say. What should he hope for? That she had been found, of course! But, failing that? Traces of any sort? Or was no news good news?

"Anything?" was all that he managed to get out.

Buquet shook his head.

He felt everything sinking down inside him.

"We'll keep on looking, sir. I assure you."

"Yes. Yes, you do that, Buquet. Keep on looking."

"Are you feeling all right, sir?" the older man ventured. Raoul looked blankly at him, while his mind screamed.

_You bloody idiot! How can I possibly be feeling 'all right'? My fiancée has _disappeared _without a trace, without even a note, without even telling me where she was going! She's been gone _all night!_ Out there, in the cold! She could be kidnapped! She could be dead – oh, oh God, oh God, oh **God**..._

"I think so," was all he said.

Buquet looked at him shrewdly, but then sighed and nodded. "Don't worry, Raoul. She probably stayed over at Pastor Defarge's house. I sent one of the lads to check. I'm sure she'll be back soon."

_Certain to be back, _Raoul thought, as he watched Buquet tramp away into the snow before shutting the door. _Probably stayed at the Pastor's for the night. Probably will come with him. She'll be all right. She'll be all right…_

He had to grip the banister for support, as he made his way back up the stairs. _She'll be fine. She'll be back. She'll be fine. She'll be back. _He had heard those assurances, in so many different forms, so many times that he couldn't help thinking of them, over and over again.

_She will be all right. She should be. She _has _to be. She can't be…_

He knew that something was wrong, and it wasn't just the situation. It was him. It was himself. Ever since he had heard the dreadful, terrible news, that Christine was gone, had been missing for a whole night, he felt as if something had cracked and shattered inside him, the shards stabbing him inside like panes of glass, making it hurt for him to breathe, to think without pain. The girls saw it, and so did Buquet, and now they were all treating him like something made of fragile porcelain, that could fall and smash at the merest voice raised too loud.

There was a pounding in his head. It had been going on for quite some time, and was getting worse and worse with ever breath he attempted to take, every thought he strived to process. It was clawing at his eyes and the back of his throat, and making swallowing painful and strained. His ears were buzzing with the silence, as he made his slow way along the corridor…

…but it wasn't just the silence anymore. There were voices, chattering, jabbering, clamouring ahead of him. He paused, focused. His feet had taken him to one of the landing-balconies overlooking the entrance hall, into which were pouring all manner of people; gentleman doffing their hats, ladies decked in jewels and furs, all being greeted by Philippe and Grandpére and Louis and Bernard greeted them. Their noisy chatter filled the echoing room.

_What's going on? _he thought for an instant, before he remembered something beyond the present time, and his concentration. _Of course, the guests for the masquerade._ He supposed that this at least was to their advantage, since the older adults would be distracted by so many people, and less ready to realise that Meg and Carlotta were cloistering themselves away, or notice Christine's absence.

He watched dully as a fairly young and attractive woman, wrapped in pale furs, was bowed in by the footmen, and at once was being attended to by Louis, who was kissing her hand, and looking even from this distance as if he would like to kiss other parts of her. That was his 'La Sorelli', then. Unconsciously he found himself scanning the crowd for the green velvet that Meg said she had gone out in, even though it was improbable that she would come in through the front door in such a manner…but there was always hope…

_She's not going to be there. She's gone._

And so should he. He didn't want to attract his family's attention, and be roped into greeting people he didn't know, welcoming them into his home when he didn't want them there.

He turned and continued to walk along the landing, to the door at the end. _Please don't see me, please don't see me, please don't see me, _he thought fervently. Grandpére's eyes might be old, but they were still sharp, and he had an idea the old man was aware of his presence.

But luck seemed to be with him, and he passed through the door at the end of the landing into the Long Gallery without being checked by any voice from down the staircase. He was glad, or as glad as he could be. He didn't want to see _anyone._

He looked to his left as he paced along – this route was the quickest back to his own room – down into the great ballroom below. The servants were setting out the tables for the food that would be heaped upon them, and decorating them with greenery. Raoul felt calmer for watching them working briskly and busily, unaffected by what was happening to him and the girls…and to Christine.

The tapping of his feet echoed around him, as he walked the length of the gallery. He could remember the nights he had spent with Christine here, watching dancers at balls waltz the night away. Christine had so loved seeing the pretty ladies dance…

…and now he was thinking about her as if she had actually died-

_Oh God no!_

He dug his finger nails into his palms, and bit his lip, and reached the door at the end. He couldn't think like that. He couldn't. So he shouldn't think at all.

At least, not here.

He managed to focus on nothing but his footsteps, until he reached the door of his room. Once it closed behind him, closed him away from the world, he allowed himself to let go. It was as if his legs were slipping out from under him, and his stomach was reaching up his throat to burst forth from his lips. He barely managed to make it to his bathroom before he was suddenly bent over on the floor, retching, even though he couldn't remember eating _anything_ since last night and didn't have anything left to throw up, meaning he was left with an agonizing spell of dry coughing which set his throat on fire.

Afterwards, he sat with his back to the bath, hugging his knees, the cloth of his trousers brushing his sticky chin. His throat burned, and his eyes burned, and everything in his head seemed to be on fire with the acid from his stomach. He felt as weak and stupid as if he was roaring drunk, but at the same time he had never felt more serious in his life. It was as if everything he had learnt was weighing down upon him, and twisting his very insides, and grabbing hold of his heart and yanking it out of his mouth, and _squeezing _all the while…

…and what made it worse was that it was _Christine_ who was doing it. His beloved Christine, whom he knew he loved more than anyone else in his life. Christine, whom he had adored as a boy and grown to adore as a young man, and who despite all his faults seemed to love him back with just as much adoration.

_But if she loves me so, why would she do this to me? Why would she go away? Why would she _stay _away?_

His head fell back, and hit the edge of the tub hard, but the pain was distant and far away. He wished he could count back the seconds and minutes in blows, back to last afternoon, back to when Christine was still in the house, so that he could go to her, talk to her, ask her for God's sake why, why, _why…_

_Does it please you to do this to me, Christine? Does it please you to torment me so?_

With difficulty he got up, and made his slow, painful way back to his bedroom, skirting around the relatively small patch of not quite vomit on the tiled floor. He could easily have called for a servant to clean it up, but he didn't want anyone in here. Not now.

The book was lying on the bed. Meg had given it to him just before she and Carlotta had gently shooed him out of the room – oh, so _gently;_ as if even with brushing him with a finger, a _nail_, they would bruise him, damage him even further – that Christine had found this for him in the library, as a pre-wedding present, so that he could learn the poetry in it and find it easier to learn his vows.

_And she thinks _this _will not harm me? _he thought dully, as he sat down heavily on his bed, his fingers brushing the red leather.

He could hardly bear to look at it, knowing what lay just under its cover. But again he was drawn back to it, again he picked it up, again he opened it to the front page to read the message – not the first one, but the one written beneath it. And yes, there was Christine's by now familiar copper plate handwriting:

_My dear,_

_As a gift to you, I give you melodies from your family's heart_

_To awaken the melody that I know lies hidden in your own._

_With love for ever and ever,_

_from your beloved _

_**Christine.**_

Raoul's fingers tightened on the book so hard, the pages began to crinkle, disrupting the words. It almost seemed as if his eyes were becoming blurry with tears, so he quickly released his hold and let the book fall onto his lap. He leant over, clasped his hands on his knees, and tried to breathe without choking.

Why did she write this? What was she thinking while she wrote the words? Was she writing from her heart, or from some other place? And was she sincere? _Oh Lord, _has _she run away after all? Why else would she instruct Meg not to tell me where she was until now?_

_Because she could not trust me, could not talk to me; that is why._

_Oh, Christine, **why?** Where did you go? What did you _do?

_Where are you, Christine? Are you…_

Raoul didn't know which scenario was worse at this moment; the possibility that Christine was…he didn't even dare _think _the word for fear of tempting fate…or that she was perfectly safe and well, but she had left on purpose willingly, leaving him behind, because she had found that she didn't love him after all.

_I'm sorry, Christine. I'm so sorry…_

There was a dry feeling in his throat again, but he knew that this time it had come because of the tears that seemed to be welling up inside him, threatening to burst out of his eyes. But he couldn't' cry. He was a de Chagny, and de Chagnys did not cry. Subsequent scolding at both his parent's funerals had taught him this, as well as most of his life.

So he bent his head and squeezed his eyes shut so the tears would not escape, and instead prayed to the One whom he had invoked so many times in the last few hours, holding the book Christine had meant for him to have like a book of psalms clamped between his fingers; bent in prayer as he rarely had since his mother's funeral, and his family's apparent scorning of the church.

_Please, dear God, let Christine be safe. Let her be safe and well. Let her come back, in no danger. Let her be safe. Let her be found, safe and unharmed. Please, Father, let her come back. Let her come back to me, safe and well and unharmed and alive._

_And please, Father…please let her still love me._

_I love you, Christine. I love you so much!_

_Please come back to me._

_Please._

_**Please.**_

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If you think to mock Raoul for being so emotional, and sneer, and call him a 'wimpy fop' (I'm not saying you _will,_ of course – just that you _might_) please pause to consider. After all, he loves Christine, as you will obviously have guessed, very much indeed; and now she's missing, and she could be _dead,_ for all he knows. So there's nothing he can do except hope and pray that she's safe – and, yes, I admit, throw up to a certain degree from extended shock and stress, and fight back the tears. Would you do any different? As a certain film, the title of which I'm not going to tell you in case you give me funny looks, included in the script, and I quote: 'Being away from someone you love is one of the hardest things in the world.' Knowing – or rather fearing – that they ran away from you because they didn't love you enough ,or were afraid of your love, is probably even worse.**

**Incidentally, one bit in this chapter was inspired by Raoul's thoughts in the book at one point, but I think you'll have to read quite hard and be quite dedicated and read between the lines to actually find it.**

**No, I'm not going to tell you what it is. Easter egg hunt! Easter egg hunt!**

**And yes, potentially boring chapter, apart from the angst – but some bits will be important later on. What bits? Ah, I'm not going to say! **

**And, _finally_, yes, we will be going back underground next chapter. Lots of people seem to like that place, don't they? Then again, the Underworld was much more exciting in the film than 'upstairs'.**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	31. No love without trust

**Disclaimer: I am not Gaston Leroux. Nor Tim Burton. They are both male. And have facial hair. While I am female, and have none. Indeed, yes. Believe me, I should know. **

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Down once more to the lair. And all that jazz! That could be _another _catchphrase, you know! ****Enjoy the chappie, for it is E/C! And setting another chain of events into motion! I love chains!**

**Event ones, that is. Other ones are just slightly…bondy. **

**I can't believe I just said that.**

**_Read the chapter, quick!_**

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They built a woman. It was a logical choice. After all, while men wielded more obvious power…beautiful women often achieved great things, on the other hand, merely by smiling at powerful men.**

**Terry Pratchett, _Thief of Time_**

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Never listen to a woman's tears, Charlie Brown.

**Charles Schulz's Peanuts comics**

**(I just _had_ to put that one in. A point all you males would do well to remember. Darn, I've betrayed my own side. Oh, well.)**

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No love without trust

Christine sat on the edge of the stone platform, in a way very reminiscent of the position she had used who knew how long ago, when she had first awaited Erik's return after their shouting match. How very long ago now it did seem! Again she drummed her heels against the tapestry covered stone, her fingers curling over the ledge, as she looked out over the water. She had long given up any expectation of seeing anything, but that didn't prevent her from looking. Sometimes, it was simply a relief upon her eyes, after the vibrancy of what Erik showed her, and played for her, and encouraged her to sing.

There had been time enough since the agreement they had made back in Nadir's garden for her both to curse and to exalt in her heart her acceptance of the lessons he had laid at her feet, as an offering to placate her. Why in heaven had she made that promise, to be his pupil, in the first place? She had an idea that it had been to placate _him, _while she searched for some, any, way out of her predicament, to quiet his suspicions through her gradual obedience. That part at least had worked, for in some ways her captor had become her captive. She could punish him by a refusal to sing, a rejection of an occasion's lesson, leading him to – not quite plead, but certainly make many attempts to bribe her into becoming vocal once more, from playing her beautiful music that begged to be sang to, to singing himself, in an endeavour to coax her voice forth; and as her voice improved with the training he provided her with, so his desperation became all the more slightly evident when she apparently committed crimes by refusing, petulantly, to utilise it.

It pleased her in some small, probably meaningless way, to know that, however much power his voice might hold over her, her voice had its own small measure of power over him. It was almost alarming at times.

Only at times. At other times, it was almost gratifying.

But, all the same, while she appeared to have entrapped him, he most certainly still held her in his thrall. Try as she might, no matter how much she alternately obeyed and remonstrated, conversed and refused to speak alternately, she still could not overcome that obstacle in her immediate surroundings – that, while she held Erik's heart and mind easily, he most certainly held her in his power, and in his realm. No matter how hard she tried to learn the rules of this place, in the end it was he who had made them, and he who could change them at will.

And it wasn't just the rules that unnerved her. The whole situation of the lessons was beginning to make her feel uneasy. At first she had thought that she had been very clever when she had fobbed him off with her promise, but now that she had had time to experience it at length, she doubted that she had been so very clever at all. For, though she routinely delayed the lessons when she felt the time had come to wrap him a little further around her finger, the pain he felt at the scorned teachings seemed to be echoed in her own soul. Little as she liked to admit it, with her understandably biased point of view, Erik _was_ a very good teacher, and with every ounce of tutorage her voice became better and better, clearer, stronger, more vibrant, perhaps even surpassing the days when she had been tutored back in the world of the living. Consequently, it was becoming harder and harder to refuse his offers of further fulfilment, and his quiet, pleading voice as he begged her to reconsider was echoed inside her, agreeing with him-

_Oh, confound it all! I refuse to believe he's been cleverer than me _this _time! In this matter, I am in control. Of course I'm in control. He panders to my every need. I control him…_

_Meg would know what to do. If only she was here…_

At the thought of Meg, she had to work hard to bite back a sob. Shameful as it was to admit, with everything else happening around her, she had been thinking of back 'upstairs' less and less; yet every time she did so it caused her more and more pain, the more time passed. To be down here, and not even know what her friends were doing, where they were, was torment enough; but to not know what they were thinking was even worse.

They had probably long since given up looking for her, their hysteria giving way to despair. The thought of what they must be suffering tore at her already tender heart, the thought that they did not even know whether she was alive or dead, and had no way of finding out the truth.

And as for Raoul…

_I can hardly even remember his face, now._

Slowly, she stood up. She knew that she must walk carefully over to the organ stool, where even now he waited for her. One false step, and it would all come pouring out, and she would not be able to help it. She would not show her grief in front of _him._

"What will you play now, Erik?" she asked, keeping her eyes steadily on the sheet music on the organ stand, and trying not to focus on the dark fabric of his nearly empty sleeve practically next to her – though with time, the sleeve had somehow seemed to become more and more bulky, along with his trouser leg, as if Erik's mortal body was finally giving up the struggle and letting his spirit form take over, and with it the illusion of wholeness rather than decay. She had not dared to test this theory out through touch, though. The alternating feeling of Erik's hand, rapidly jumping between bone and flesh, was enough to make her feel weak at the knees, in more ways than one.

"Othello and Desdemona's duet," came the soft reply. There was a pause from her right, before his beautiful voice spoke again. "Christine? Are you sure you wish to sing now?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?" she shot back, too quickly.

There was one of his macabre chuckles. "Then as the lady wishes." At once his fingers began to pound out the notes that preceded the duet, and he bent his dark head over the keys.

As she sang Desdemona, to Erik's dark, soulful Othello, she felt everything that she had repressed swelling up inside her. The sheer sadness and horror or the situation almost choked her; the knowledge that your fate was inevitable, and would end in darkness, with no hope of redemption. She sang, becoming her character. She sang to try to quell her despair and terror. She sang, to try and avoid the emotion that was threatening to split her heart, and took no notice when it seemed instead to spill out through her eyes and down over her cheeks. She sang-

"Christine!"

With a start, she realised that the music had stopped, and that through her cloudy vision she could see Erik reaching out to grasp her by the shoulders. She had half a mind to flinch away, but by that time it was too late and she already felt his grip upon her skin, pulling her closer, irresistibly.

She was shocked to find that her cloudy vision was actually caused by tears that were now dripping down onto her breast, and that, though she was still singing, she was only feebly warbling the words between her sudden sobs. It was ridiculous! She couldn't start weeping like a baby now, not after coping for so long! She at once tried to stop, to quell her gasps for air, to recall the tears she had shed, but it was impossible. Now that she had broken down for an instant, it seemed pointless to try to rebuild the façade, at least for now.

She allowed Erik to steer her over to the bench, sitting her down, let his anxious inquiries of what was wrong pass over her head. _He drags me down to the underworld, _she thought dryly and dimly, _entombs me in this lair, and he asks me what is wrong? How much of a cretin _is _he?_

Pressure on her cheeks made her blink to clear her vision. Well, perhaps Erik was not so much of a cretin after all. He seemed to have given up asking her questions, and was instead gently running a damp handkerchief he had spirited from nowhere across her cheeks, mopping up her tears as carefully and tenderly as a mother tends to her dirty child who needs comfort for a scraped knee. As she looked up at him through eyes that had been blurry and aching before he had cleaned them, he stroked the cloth across her chin, where an excess of salty liquid had built up to drip down further; paused, and then placed the handkerchief carefully into her hands, seeming to think that in this mood she was even less likely to let him near that particular area of her body. Then he carefully knelt down – with barely a hint of grinding bone from his knee – in front of her, and clasped her hands in his, very reminiscent of that first time in the lair.

"Well?" he asked, gently.

It was enough to set her off weeping again. Feeling ridiculous even as she had to dab at her eyes with the piece of cloth – and escaping the touch of his hands, which she was sure he had not planned – she said, brokenly, "I'm sorry, Erik." _No I'm not. _"It's just – I – I miss my family so. I miss them so much, and…and…and they probably think I'm d-_dead!"_

Erik's hands tightened on hers. "What makes you say that?"

"Because I've been missing for who knows how long!" Lord, she didn't even know _how _long she'd been kept down here. It could be two weeks or two months, she had no way of telling, no way of knowing, no way of measuring out time by meals or need for sleep, since her time in Erik's realm seemed to have warped her requirement for either into non-existence. "They'll have sent out search parties for me. Oh, good Lord," she murmured, the full horror of the likely situation up top beginning to swamp as it hadn't even when she had first been brought here, "they might think I was k-kidnapped! Or - or raped and murdered, and my body hid somewhere. Or…" Her last thought caught her in her throat, and she didn't dare speak it, hardly think it, because of the full weight of the horror it carried for her and for her fiancée.

_Or maybe they think I ran away._

"I doubt it," Erik said quietly. Her head jerked up, half thinking he was referring to her last thought – she wouldn't put it past him to be able to read minds, on top of everything else – but it seemed that he seemed to be trying to reassure her. "Time moves differently here, Christine – it is much faster, outside the time of the living. From my guess, it is most likely the morning after the night we met."

_You've blundered, Erik, _was her first thought, almost dreamy in sudden euphoria.

Even as he spoke, his eyes suddenly fixed on hers in alarm, and she knew that he realised with a shock that he had made a mistake, even as she forced herself to say, calmly, trying to quell her excitement and emotion "So, the masquerade ball is tonight…"

"What of it?" he asked harshly, obviously trying to cover up his horror at his uncharacteristic error.

She met his gaze again, taking her eyes off the candlestick just behind him. "Erik-"

"No." His voice had gone flat, stripped of all timbre or music quality, as he abruptly stood up, dropping her hand as if she was suddenly the one who was rancid, not him.

"You didn't even know what I was going to say."

"I did know. And the answer is no, Christine. Do you think I would be such a fool as to allow you to go back up there? To attend this pitiful masquerade? To throw yourself at _him _once again? And to never come back?"

It was as bad as she had feared, but she had to at least try. "Erik, please-"

"_No." _Erik stamped over to the edge of the platform, looking out over the water, with a glare enough to turn it to ice in an instant; his skeletal hand flexing and closing, as it often seemed to do when he was emotional.

She thought swiftly, trying to think of a compromise. "Erik, listen. No, please, listen," she said hastily, as he turned to glare at her in turn, his yellow eyes glowing with sudden fire. "If I promise, I _promise, _that I would spend only the evening up there – just _one _night – and come straight back to the wood, or at least as quickly as I could, would you let me? Just to see my friends and family, just to let them know that I'm all right, that I'm safe? If I promised?"

For a moment he said nothing, as he processed this. His face gave no hint of what he was thinking; even the fire in his eyes seemed to have gone down as he thought.

_Please, please, please oh please oh please…_

Finally he spoke, more quietly. "But what regard would you give to a promise made to a dead man? Surely it would not matter, one of those part of the negotiation being deceased and therefore invalid? I am sorry, Christine, but I would not trust you to keep your word, especially in your situation."

_Damn you, Erik! Damn you! _she raged silently, as her hopes fractured and cracked and disintegrated. But she only stood up, placing the handkerchief carefully down upon the bench with all the composure she could muster, before turning and making her way down the steps and away from him.

"Some have said there can be no love where there is no trust, Erik," she shot back over her shoulder.

She waited until she reached the roses, after threading her way through various parts of the lair she was by now familiar with, before stopping and hugging herself to prevent herself from screaming out loud with frustration. How could Erik? How _could _he? He knew the situation above ground, he knew her desires, and yet he wouldn't even let her see those she loved, to reassure them, to comfort them, tell them that she was all right, promise them that she would escape, for them…

_If he loves me as much as he says, why does he refuse me this?_

She traced her fingers over the rose petals. They brought her little or no comfort, but she needed something, anything, to do, to distract herself…

_No. I _won't _be distracted. He will _not _refuse me this._

Turning on her heel, she stalked back the way she had come, until she reached the edge of the water and the organ once again. Erik was sitting on the bench, but still looking out over the water, straight-backed and tall as ever, his eyes distant. In his skeletal hand, he held the handkerchief.

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word Erik said mildly, without even looking at her, "I assent."

"What?" She hadn't been expecting this.

"I assent," he repeated. "I will take you up to the surface. I will even take you to the mansion, to attend your ball, so that you may see your companions."

Even as she internally rejoiced, she was alert for any catches. "There are conditions, I presume?"

He smirked down at her. "But of course. You must not tell anyone certain details of where you have been, or what has happened to you in the time that you are away. Aloofness shall be your watchword. And, of course," he added, standing up swiftly, "I shall accompany you."

"_What?"_

He smiled down at her shock. "Come, come, Christine, do you really think I would let you go up alone? With no protection? Why – _anything_ could happen to you."

She gained enough control over her voice to shoot back, "Do you not think I will arouse suspicion in my elders by arriving with another man, let alone what Raoul will think?"

He seemed to wince at the barb of her beloved's name, but the grin quickly returned. "Oh, I should not worry, my dear – after all, no one will recognise you. You shall be in disguise! Won't that be thrilling?"

He had tricked her. How? He had tricked her, taken all the weight out her purpose in going back up. How was she supposed to approach her companions when they wouldn't even be able to realise who she was, let alone convince them of what had happened to her? "But – but how will I be able to tell them what has happened? How will they believe me?"

"That, I believe, is your problem, my dear." He strode down the steps, and catching up her hand dragged after him, all bewildered. "Now, come – I am sure you will wish to see your costume."

She had no words to protest as he led her swiftly, stumbling, up the flight of steps to his bedchamber. Instinctively she pulled back – what possible reason could he have for taking her there, unless to his bed, perhaps? _Oh, God, no _– but instead he turned at the last minute and pulled her up another little flight of steps she had somehow failed to notice, to a small alcove set in the wall, covered with a velvet curtain. Flashing a half smile at her over his shoulder, he pulled the curtain aside.

After staring at just _what_ was positioned just inside the alcove what seemed like hours, or even days, she found the words to speak. "Erik…"

"Yes?"

"It's a wedding dress."

"You are indeed perceptive, Christine."

"You want me to wear this to the masquerade."

"Yes."

Too many implications were screaming in her head for her to make much sense of it all, but one statement surfaced. "I can't wear it."

"And why not?" Controversially, he did not sound annoyed at all now, but rather amused.

"Erik, I _cannot_ wear a wedding dress to a masquerade held by my fiancée's family; not when I am already attending it with another…man. Surely even you can understand that?" Even as she spoke, she felt a pang at her heart. It was the most beautiful dress she had even seen, after all, even lovelier than the rose pink gown she had left behind in the mansion. The grey silk seemed to call out to her somehow, begging to be stroked, touched caressed, slipped on over bare skin, and then leisurely stripped off in the secrecy of the marriage boudoir.

But to wear it…that she could not do. Not like this.

"Surprisingly enough, yes, I do, Christine." Erik elbowed himself upright off the wall, where he had been leaning to gage her reaction. "If it distresses you that much, I will make some alterations to your outfit."

"Of what sort?" she asked, fearfully. Already she was shrinking away from the dress on the mysteriously shrouded dummy, away from the dead flowers it carried, and away from the one who, it appeared, had created them.

"A beneficial sort. Now, leave me in peace for a while. Then I shall don my costume, and we shall both go up to the ball together!" Now that Erik was becoming used to the idea, he seemed to be almost fired with it, like an enthusiastic little boy. Already he seemed more than eager to alter his creations, so that he might prove their worth, so that he might gain an entrance back into life.

_What have I done? _she asked herself. To distract that question, she asked tentatively, "What will you be going to the ball as, then, Erik?"

Erik paused in his lifting of the veil off the head of the dummy. "Well…let us just say, my dear, that whatever it is, I shall not need to wear a mask with my costume."

He let the veil fall to the ground as he spoke, and pulled the curtain to, giving her only a glimpse of the bare, lifeless head of the dummy, that nevertheless seemed to stare at her eyeless.

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And finish! All right, I can apologise now. I've just been _soooo_ busy! I hate school work! It impinges on my valuable writing time, if that is the right word. _Oh, curses to it all!_**

**Ah, that's better. I've been waiting to write that for _ages._**

**This scene pretty much speaks for itself. Lots of you have wanted those down below to meet those up above for a while now, and Victor had got Emily (the Corpse Bride) to take him back up to the top long before this. Soon we shall have the masquerade chapter – and I promise you, it shall be a _long _chapter.**

**Off the subject for a moment, extra brownie points to anyone who can spot the link of one prop in this chapter to another part of the chapter! **

**Off the subject for another moment; Erik's knee scraping is a tribute to my own knees. The bones in them seem to click together whenever I kneel down. Also my hip clicks as well, when I move it in an odd way. _And_ my neck. **

**I swear I'm going to get arthritis in later life.**

**I can't _wait _for the masquerade chapter, when I get to show all the characters costumes. Christine's was a flash of genius on my part. I can't tell you what it is, but I'll give you a hint – it's _not _going to be a black domino.**

**Is there anything else? Oh yes; sorry again for taking so long, all my lovely and faithful reviewers!**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	32. It is time

**Disclaimer: Don't own it. Too tired to argue.**

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I would pretend to be the knight that was pictured, and Holiday was the faithful dog curled up at his feet. Lindsey would be the wife he'd left behind. It always dissolved into giggles no matter how solemn the start. Lindsey would tell the dead knight that a wife had to move on, that she couldn't be trapped for the rest of her life by a man who was frozen in time. I would act stormy and mad, but it never lasted. Eventually she would describe her new lover: the fat butcher who gave her prime cuts of meat, the agile blacksmith who made her hooks. "You are dead, knight," she would say. "Time to move on."**

**The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold.**

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It is time

Renée allowed her maid to place the last few curved pins into her hair, holding her elaborate, exotic bun in place. She couldn't recall having a hairstyle like this since her days on the stage of the Paris opera. With her hair pulled away from her face and framing it in a different manner from usual, it almost seemed to give it a different shape; in some ways younger.

"Is there anything else you wish, Madame?"

"Yes; fetch me my fan, and my mask."

As Antoinette hurried away to another table, Renée stood, the stiff silk rustling around her and over her skin. It felt so light, and yet so warm. Truly, she had never worn anything like this, not even when she was younger. She stood and looked at herself in the mirror, and it seemed that the dress was fitted not upon the frame of a mother approaching middle age, but a pert, slim-waisted, lissom young maiden…even if that maiden's face was slightly etched with lines.

She wondered, secretly, if any real geisha would be surprised at her. _Probably._

"Your fan and your mask, Madame." Antoinette held the first object out to her. She accepted it gratefully, slipping the cord on the large fan around her wrist, but keeping a tight hold upon it.

As she turned for her to fasten the mask onto her face, she found herself looking at the picture of Georges, which she had placed next to the mirror. She took it wherever she went – how could anyone expect her not to? His image was a constant reminder of the love that had blossomed between them, leading them to defy social decorum, and he to risk being ostracized, and she to give up her whole career, in their desire to be together.

And now Georges beloved face seemed to be staring at her accusingly, as another face was slipped on and fastened over her own.

_I am only going to dance, _she told him silently, as she subtly raised her fingers to her lips, pretending to make sure her mask was on straight, but really to blow him the most miniscule of kisses. _Just to dance._

But a tiny part of her mind, the part that had caused the blood to rise to her cheeks when she thought of Comte Philip the Younger, the part that still delighted in others admiring her, whispered, _How can I let myself be trapped by a man frozen in time?_

"I hope you have a wonderful evening, Madame," Antoinette twittered, as she drew back.

Renée smiled more for her husband than for anyone else, as she turned to the door. "Oh, I'm sure that I will."

* * *

Cecile was terrified.

The warm feeling in her stomach was gone, to be replaced with sickness. She felt as if she might bring all that honey right back up. This was stupid! Why had she agreed to it?

But it was too late to escape. She was caught between Meg and Carlotta, as they ushered her down the staircases and halls, with hands on her arms that might look steadying, but she knew were there to prevent her from running back to the room and locking herself in, so that no one could get at her.

Then again, she'd probably trip up on the skirts of the dress.

"Almost there," Meg muttered on her left.

"Now, remember," Carlotta hissed on her right, "try not to talk too much. If you want, we will get you excused later. But you _must _be seen to be there, understand?"

Cecile tried to reply, but her throat seemed to have seized up, so she simply nodded and nodded, until she felt the sharp pinch of Carlotta's fingers on her arm and stopped.

"Don't worry, Cecile," Meg whispered. "It's not really forever…not long at all."

Or at least, that was what she _guessed _she said. It really did rather sound like _It's only forever…_

She gulped, but she didn't dare lag behind – she didn't want Carlotta to pinch her again! That girl seemed to have fingers like pincers!

She could hear a noise growing greater; a noise of chattering and echoing, and faint music that grew louder with each step towards the source. As the three girls skimmed over the floor towards the door that led into the main hall that in its turn led into the ballroom, Cecile thought she really might be sick.

"For goodness' sake, _smile!"_ came another hiss from her right. "You're meant to be _happy!_ A girl's always happy when she's going dancing!"

"Are you?" she shot back, without thinking.

There was silence from that quarter for a few moments, before Carlotta said more quietly, "At least try not to look as if you are about to be sick, then, even if you cannot smile."

"Here we are." Meg halted them at the doors. Her blue eyes glanced at them fearfully under her golden mask. "No going back now, understand?"

She felt Carlotta nod behind her. _Oh, help. _How could she do this? How could she think that she could go down into that ballroom, and dance with the Vicomte? It was madness to think it, madness and impossibility!

Meg placed a hand on the door, and pushed it open. The noise washed over them. Cecile nearly bit her lip in terror.

"We've arrived."

* * *

As Renée made her way through in her rustling gold and black silk, she was aware that she was drawing more than one admiring glance – an experience she thought had been long lost – though it was probably just as well the young men couldn't see her face.

But in any case, she had no time for them. She made her way over to one person she recognised in all this throng; even if his head was turned away, she would recognise him anywhere.

He happened to glance her way as she approached, and did not turn his head away again. His mouth opened slightly, as he turned to face her fully. He did look _most _attractive when he was surprised, she decided, as she stopped a few paces from him.

"Comte Philip." She made a low curtsey such as she had not since her days on the stage, her sleeves sliding delightfully across her skin as she held her skirt out in order to do so. Her muscles only strained slightly.

"You came after all, Madame." He still seemed to be shocked.

"I decided that, if people did talk, there would be far more for them to talk about than a woman in a kimono, Comte. Even if it was a borrowed kimono."

He reached for her hand as his face broke into a smile, and raised it to his lips to kiss.

"_Enchanté," _he whispered.

* * *

"_Belle," _Erik breathed into her ear, as she stood and stared at herself in one of the many mirrors the lair seemed to contain.

She shook her head, disbelievingly. "You have a strange idea of what is beautiful, Erik." But at the same time, she simply could not tear her eyes away from her reflection. It was…it was…

"A shot to the heart, my dear! But do not say that it is not striking."

A flash of scarlet caught her eye, and she turned to see that he was fastening on his cloak. "And who are _you_ meant to be, then?" she quipped, as well as she could.

"That will emerge in time to come." His sable gloves came away from his throat, and suddenly held something else – something pale. "Here is your mask, Christine. Would you prefer if I put it on for you?"

"No, thank you. I can do it myself." She reached out to take the mask - and still took it from him, even after she saw exactly what it was.

_Oh, God, _she thought weakly, as she held the large piece of porcelain loosely in her hands. _I can't do this. I _cannot _do this._

A touch from leather cloaked fingers on her chin gently, irresistibly made her head turn to look up at Erik's great height. He was wearing his mask now. It was a strange sort of mask. She couldn't tell whether it was laughing or crying. His yellow eyes were…unreadable.

She sighed. She had to do this. It was the only way she would see Raoul again. And…she did not want those golden eyes to look at her in such a way, again. It tore her heart.

_I cannot let myself be frozen in time._

"I will put it on. I will. By myself, Erik. By myself."

He nodded, and drew back, as she drew the mask up to her face, and felt the cold kiss of it over her eyes and her jaw. Her fingers, in their strange gloves, sought to tie the cords at the back; but instead leather brushed over her skin again, as he now stood behind her and draw the cords tight, tying them under her mane of hair.

She looked into the mirror, and she and he stared back, his ace over her shoulder, he in scarlet, she in grey, and both masked.

_What a sight! _But she was aware that she was certainly not as shocked as she might once have been – not even at the sight of herself.

"Is this a ball, or an All Hallows Eve celebration, Erik?" she murmured.

His voice murmured back, slipping into her ear like wild honey. "On All Hallows Eve, the Dead rise from their graves. So perhaps it is, Christine. Perhaps it is. But then again," he curled his arm through hers and caught her hand in his, "something else will rise tonight as well."

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And cut.**

**Too tired. **

**Too, too tired to say anything. Work it out. Can't tell you yet.**

**Big, _big _chapter coming up next.**

**Too tired.**

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Review, please.**


	33. Masquerade

**Disclaimer: Whatever comes next, I don't own any of it. Really, I don't. My, how I wish I did, though.**

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All right! I'm more invigorated now – if that is the right word I want – so I can speak. Yes, this _is_ the masquerade chapter, _finally_ – I have been looking forward to this for _so _long, as I'm sure all of you have as well!**

**As well as all this, I've decided to have a little fun concerning the costumes – a game, if you will. Here are the rules of the game: PLEASE READ FIRST!**

**(1) Read through the whole chapter, but miss out the bold at the bottom the first time around. **

**(2) See how many references to operas or stage productions you can find in the characters costumes – read through again if you can't think of many!**

**(3) Then read the bold at the bottom, to see if you were right.**

**Happy hunting! Enjoy!**

**Oh, one more word before you dive in. The narrative at the beginning and the end of the chapter is just that - a narrative. It's not from the point of view of any particular character, or any character at all, really. I put it in mainly because it seemed like a good idea at the time. We shall see if my hunch paid off.**

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None will be true Parisian who has not learned to wear a mask of gaiety over his sorrows and one of sadness, boredom or indifference over his inward joy…In Paris, our lives are one masked ball…**

**Gaston Leroux: _The Phantom of the Opera_**

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For all that, company, he began to think, would really be very welcome on that lonely shore, if only you could choose your companion. In his unenlightened days he had read of meetings in such places which even now would hardly bear thinking of. He went on thinking of them, however, until he reached home, and particularly of one which catches most people's fancy at some point of their childhood. 'Now I saw in my dream that Christian had gone but a very little way when he saw a foul fiend coming over the field to meet him.'**

**M.R. James: _Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad._**

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Masquerade

When uninvited guests arrive at a social gathering, it is very rarely the host or their friends, or the chattering masses that talk and eat and drink and dance and laugh, that notice.

Instead, it is the person that is standing by the doorway, not sure whether to stay or to leave, queasy with the kick of an empty womb pounding in their gut, or too much alcohol in their blood, or simply nervousness blighting their limbs. In some cases, it is all three.

They may see the flap of a cape without any wind, or the flash of a jewel spangled in dark hair, or a pendant adorning a lily white throat; the glint of tawny eyes or the gleam of deep, dark orbs set in a tableaux of unnaturally pale skin, or sapphire and emerald together as splinters of treasures torn from the earth. And they may catch just a scent of dust, of the air in old rooms, of sweat that has not come from their companions, or of sharp sweetness that can cloy and rot.

For every witness, it is different.

For Cecile, sitting on a bench by one of the doorways, worn out after only a few waltzes and not daring to show Monsieur Raoul up with her atrocious dancing any longer, it was the sudden, startling flash of red streaming before her eyes, uncurling from the gleam of a grey dress; and the flashes of gold meeting earth; and the bone whiteness of two opposing faces; all there one instant, and gone before she had time to blink, taking with it the scent that had stuck in her nose, out of place even here…

Not so much the stench, as the very sense, of something that had been dead for far too long.

* * *

"Enjoying yourself, my dear?"

Celandine forced herself to smile at her grandfather, though it pained her horribly, before looking out once more over the assemblage of dancers upon the floor, the shells in her hair clicking together as she did so.

_At least I don't have to dance with him, _she reminded herself, relief flooding her fevered mind. _That limp in his leg is at least one blessing._

"But, Celandine, why aren't you dancing with Louis? Genevieve is on the floor with Bernard already!" To her mind, his voice seemed to be entirely too smug, mocking her without relents. He knew as well as she did that at that moment her husband was lavishing attention upon his latest conquest; she was simply surprised that they hadn't simply avoided the masquerade and leapt straight into bed together already.

She could see the outline of his be-ruffed figure, complete with tights and doublet, leaning over his little dancer on the opposite side of the room, as she giggled and fluttered her fan, and batted her eyelashes, like some common street prostitute. She knew they were both doing it to torment her, like girls at school excluding another. Only this was more than a child's rivalry; this was a fight for dominance in a lifetime which only one could win.

And she would always, always lose.

She wanted a knife. Not a knife that was used at table; a sharp one, with a blade that could and would cut flesh like paper with the briefest movement of the wrist. She didn't know who she wanted to use it on at the moment, but Louis's throat looked _so_ invitingly tempting beneath its ruff, and so did Sorelli's pretty, cursed face behind that fan.

"Grandpére, you know as well as I do that dancing is the last thing on my husband's mind. And even if it was, he has a different partner in mind, I fancy."

"Do you really? What a shame. With my elder grand-daughter and her husband enjoying themselves, it seems so unfair that you are not."

She watched Genevieve waltz by in her husband's arms, beaming at him, and he at her, seeming to exclude all else in their perfect moment; the very picture of a regal couple. _She_ looked like the beautiful princess she had always wanted to be, and _he_ like the handsome prince she now knew she would never get. _Unless death do us part. _"Very unfortunate indeed."

"But surely you should make an effort. It does not reflect well on the family, if Louis spends the whole of the night making eyes at another woman."

Or maybe she could stab Grandpére in the back. Eventually, if she stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, she'd get through that costume hump he was wearing, penetrate through the fleece and wool, and reach his flesh and skin and spine and what lay beneath it. And then he'd scream, or shriek, or gasp and bubble with blood. Anything, rather than speak with that odiously calm voice, reminding her that her so-called soul-mate spent much of his time making eyes at numerous women.

_He is the one who is fickle, not me. Not me._

"Grandpére, it's hot. I'm tired. I don't want to dance." _Least of all with Louis._

_I feel sick._

He slowly turned to look at her, his eyes cold behind the black velvet, hook nosed mask, lending more than a little air of a grim bird of prey.

"But you must." His voice was still gentle, but it was now filled also with the chill that she remembered so well, from a night so very like this, but yet so unlike.

She felt so sick. So queasy, and not just from her vomiting bout that very morning. She knew she shouldn't have drunk that wine, knew that it was going to come up later, not giving her time to become intoxicated. She knew she shouldn't have come down tonight.

Now she wanted that knife so very badly, for something else to cut.

"I will not dance with my husband, grandfather. You know why I will not."

He knew. And he knew she knew.

She didn't watch him go as he limped away, a dark figure disappearing among the brighter colours of the vibrant costumes of the guests. She was already turning to make her way to the stairs, to her room, where she could lie on the floor without moving, except to occasionally lift her head to add to the bitter ocean that seemed to never stop flowing from her innards. Her sea blue-green silk rustled appreciatively around her slender, lissom form, her fish tail skirts trailed behind her, and the shells in her hair clicked again like applause, for her bravery in standing up to him.

But she knew that her form would not be lissom for much longer, and then her hair would no longer be held back by an elegant net, and her face would not be covered by a mother-of-pearl mask.

She had had her triumph, and her joy; but she knew that she would pay for it yet.

_

* * *

He watched her go, the woman whose life had already been destroyed, and so young. He could feel her rage and grief radiating from her as she brushed past him, not seeing him, seeing nothing but her own misery._

_The emotion gave him warmth. It heated his chilled bones, which had shivered as they had been uncovered yet again in the night air. He deeply sympathised with her. Here was another who had been wronged and betrayed, and yet she still lived, because she would not die._

_He was impressed._

_Not that that would do her any good. _

* * *

Carlotta watched as Celandine made her way up the staircase, past laughing bystanders and chattering groups, away from the dancing, most likely to her room. The woman's shoulders seemed to be hunched, as in defeat. Her whole body was practically a sigh of despair.

She was not the only one feeling it, though. Ever since Cecile's unthinking and unaware rebuke, she had been sinking further and further into the melancholy that always claimed her during these horrid social events.

No, she was not happy when she went to dance. She was never happy. Because she knew, from life and from experience, that she would always, _always _be left behind, left to the last. To the very last.

It wasn't even the horrible dancing that was the worst, though that was bad enough. It was the knowledge that she would be desperate enough to accept an offer from a youth or man she would inevitably detest, to take part in that action she so hated – simply because she could not bear to do anything else.

Being squeezed into a ridiculously lacy costume did nothing to improve her mood, either.

She caught sight of Meg, evidently enjoying herself with her partner on the dance floor, the vibrancy of her red dress and the matching feathers in her hair marking her out as one of the most noticeable figures, and her golden bird-like mask gleaming in the light. She wished she could talk to her, or at least do something, instead of simply standing at the edge of this overheated, over-crowded ballroom, looking like a fool and feeling terrible.

She wished she could slink off upstairs like Celandine, as well. But she had to keep an eye on Cecile. She was stuck here for much of the night, then, with no one to-

"Señorina?"

_Spanish? Here? _she thought wildly, even as she swivelled around quickly. Some one who spoke her language, someone who-

No. It hadn't been Spanish. It sounded very like it, but it was from a different language. And the person who stood before her was not Spanish – but then again, it was hard to tell _what _he was, since much of his face was obscured by a ridiculous black mask. And his costume was unlike anything she had as yet seen; a tunic and leggings covered with an absurd pattern of different coloured diamonds, and trimmed at the neck and cuffs with foaming white lace. She didn't know whether to laugh or simply stare. She settled for a forced half smile.

"Mon – _señor?"_

Her masked accoster stretched out a slightly plump but well manicured hand. "Will you dance with me?"

Her hand was in his barely before she had time to think.

_

* * *

Her little friend did not seem so regal now. They all seemed to be getting along fine without her. If she saw this, perhaps she might not be so eager to talk to her friends, since they could so very easily forget her._

_But he had to keep an eye on her. He should not let his guard down, even now. He loved her, but he did not trust her. Not yet. _

* * *

Meg could not resist a giggle as she saw Carlotta pulled onto the floor by the man in the multi-coloured costume. Truth be told the young Spanish woman looked a little stunned, as if not at all sure this was a good thing after all, but it was too late for second thoughts. The next instant they were swept up into the dance, and out of sight.

She turned her head back, to smile up at her partner. She didn't even know his name, much less what he looked like, but he had a well shaped chin beneath his mask with good teeth, and so far that was good enough for her, even if through the eyeholes his eyes did look rather shadowed and tired, with dark circles.

But why should she be thinking about such things? She felt guilty even doing it, when Christine was still missing, and they were all embroiled in such a dangerous plan. At moments, she regretted that she had ever even thought of it. How could she possibly have thought that it would work?

And yet it _did _seem to be working. The explanation of Miss. Daaé's sore throat had been accepted without challenge, and although the few dances she had seen Raoul and Cecile attempt had been far less than perfect, they didn't seem to have caused suspicion.

_We might actually be able to pull this off._

In the meantime, she must dance as if she had not a care in the world, and as if there were no tomorrow, and…

She looked over her partner's shoulder, and what she saw in the watching crowd made her stumble and almost lose her footing, grabbing at his sturdy frame for support.

"Mamselle!" she heard his voice exclaim, as his arms came around her, pulling her up from her fall to the floor. "Mamselle, are you all right?"

"Yes," she muttered distractedly, as she stared frantically at where she had seen _it, _for the merest instant. But now it was gone. Disappeared.

Had she seen it at all?

The dance caught them again, and swept them away; and she was clasped to her partner's chest and again looking over his shoulder.

And she caught sight of something else. Something that, if possible, she liked even less than the apparition she must have dreamed.

_

* * *

So, she was afraid to meet her best friend's eye, instead of seeking out her confidence. Better and better. Perhaps this evening would not be so much trouble after all._

_But there was still _that_ danger. And he would curtail it yet._

* * *

Christine hadn't dared let Meg catch more than a glimpse of her, before she had ducked away behind a bystander, out of sight. She didn't think her friend would recognise her, of course – in this outfit, who would? – but the prospect of being seen like this, by an age-old companion…she didn't think she could bear it. It was repugnant to her.

She had seen Carlotta as well, dressed as a Spanish noblewoman virtually brimming with lace, and Celandine dressed as a mermaid, and Comte Philippe the Elder attired as some strange sort of hunch-backed black-clad villain, Genevieve and Bernard as glorious queen and king, amid the seeming myriads of costumes in abundance.

She hadn't approached any of them, though. She knew that she would not be able to talk to them, without breaking her vow to Erik. She had hardly dared to even speak, since she had stepped out from his crimson cloak in the woods and into the ball-room.

So, she did not talk. She fancied that this only added to the air that inevitably was building around her, as she silently made her way from one end of the room of the other, and back again, around and around, but never accepting an offer to dance when it came – _if _it came – answering only when challenged about her role; and then speaking one sentence. One sentence that summed up her existence here tonight.

"I am…"

* * *

…_not mine._

_Not yet. Not ever._

_But I am yours, my love, my life, my new life._

_I am yours._

* * *

Carlotta found, to her surprise, that she was actually _enjoying _this dance.

Her strange partner was evidently no more proficient than she was, but that didn't curb his enthusiasm. He seemed to take great delight in whirling her around until she was dizzy, but to make her giggle rather than to tire her out, though she wondered greatly how she did it – he was hardly taller than her!

She had worked out by now that he was Italian, and that made their pairing all the better; somehow it was comforting to be joined with another stranger to this otherwise unremarkable country. And he was so…different. Unlike any other young man she had ever met. He took such care of her, as if he regarded her as something precious, and not to be lost. It was a relatively new experience, to be cherished by someone who wasn't female.

She rather liked it.

At one point, he leant forward so that his mask brushed her ear, and whispered, _"Che bella!" _Understanding him at once, she was astonished at his apparent impudence – but also rather flattered.

"_Non, señor" _she shot back coyly, her mother accent more evident than before.

"_Bella donna!" _he insisted. She felt her cheeks flush. How dare he get the better of her! And by claiming that she was beautiful, which she so obviously was _not!_ He was just teasing her, all along!

Well, two could play at this game! She shot back some piece of French opera that Christine and Meg had taught her: _"No, my lord, not a lady am I, nor yet a beauty, and do not need an arm to help me on my way!" _She grinned smugly at his black clad features, certain that she had caught him out now; yet inside she was mourning again. They were all the same, in the end, all the same…

But her partner seemed to have other plans. With a sudden alarming pull at her waist he had whisked her off the floor again, and was now grasping her wrist, however gently, in his large, almost beautiful hand, while with the other he reached up and pulled off his black mask.

"_Let me gaze on the form below me,_

_While from yonder ether blue_

_Look how the star of eve, bright and tender,_

_Lingers o'er me, _

_To love thy beauty too!"_

She noted, giddily, that he looked nothing like she had imagined under the mask. His face was slightly plump, but not overly so, and he had the most adorable pouting lips, rather like her own. And his lovely dark eyes quite matched his long, lustrous curls, that she had not until now noticed; but all this was at the back of her mind, along with all other distractions. For now, she was just amazed that he could quote _Faust _so well And one of her favourite parts, as well. And in that wonderful accent, so like her own, yet so unlike.

And so she could do nothing but reply:

"_Oh, how strange!_

_Like a spell does the evening bind me!_

_And a deep languid charm_

_I feel without alarm_

_With its melody enwind me_

_And all my heart subdue."_

And it really was no more than the truth.

_

* * *

Love flowered so quickly. It wilted quickly as well, of course, but he knew that here was not the case._

_Like fire from heaven._

_But where was she?_

_He should find her, to keep an eye on her. He would not let anything happen to his angel._

* * *

Meg was furious. She was _seething._

She had abandoned her confused partner long ago, as well as the dancing. All other thoughts she had abandoned, save one.

_What the _hell _does she think she's doing?_

She glared at the sight that went again everything she had ever thought or reasoned about her mother-

-seeing her in the arms of a man.

The Comte Philippe the Younger, resplendent in his admiral outfit, cut a fine figure upon the floor, drawing the eyes of many of the women. But his eyes seemed to be occupied entirely with her mother's face.

Behind the golden bird mask, Meg scowled, her cheeks burning with anger. She barely took account of those brushing past her, in flashes of blue or shades of yellow of red – not even one red cloak, the vibrancy of which outdid even her own blood red dress. Nor did she take account of whoever wore them, or what was said – all that mattered to her in the world was her mother's face.

And the smile which was upon it, as Renée Giry gazed up at her partner, almost adoring, like one who was willing to give up everything for that person; their home, their way of life. Even their child.

_Mother – what are you _doing?

But it was already clear to Meg what her mother appeared to be doing, and she did not like it in the least.

She hated it.

She had already had one father. She did not want another.

_**

* * *

Him.**_

_Come closer to me, Vicomte, come closer. Come to me. Let me rip you apart. Let me shred your form into nothing, for daring to take her love from me. You do not deserve her. You do not even deserve to live!_

_Only a little closer. Let me…_

_No. Not here. Not in front of **her.**_

* * *

Raoul felt so very, very tired; sick and weak and agonised. It had not been a good night so far. He was so occupied with trying not to think about Christine, and trying to act at least fairly normally, that he had drained himself in the process. The black coat with golden trim was squeezing his chest, and the boyar coat hanging half off his shoulder was irritating him to no end, and the general colour of his costume did him no good in the heat of this room.

At least he was not in as bad a state as Cecile. He had left her panting on a bench, pink skirts heaped up around her, with strict instructions as to how to behave in his absence, and some sweetmeats to take the sour taste out of her mouth. He could not resist a shake of his head, as he circumnavigated the crowd. _Poor girl! _She hadn't asked for this, but she had gotten it just the same. At least she did make quite a good substitute for…

_Don't._

Where was Buquet? Where was Defarge? Where was Meg, Carlotta? He needed to speak to somebody, _anybody, _or he was going to crack and splinter and decay.

The swirl of a skirt caught his eye, and then his eye was further hooked and drawn by the…_apparition _that he saw, standing not a few feet away.

The woman's outfit was…extraordinary, to say the least. At first glance it resembled some sort of bridal gown; but that image was quickly shattered as the woman turned slightly towards him, though her face was obscured by another woman's headdress. For the detailed grey bodice, studded with pearls, was partially missing on the left hand side; and so, apparently, was the skin that _should_ have lain under it. The sight of what seemed to be actual _ribs_ showing through the hole in the dress was both grotesque and alarming, until one realised that it must be part of her costume, since it couldn't be anything else, surely. Surely.

But that wasn't the only macabre thing about this costume, he saw, as he noted with growing unease the glove that adorned the woman's left arm – or what seemed to remain of her left arm. It was a very good trick in making flesh resemble bare bone, but one in rather bad taste. Should such a sinister outfit really have place at a masquerade?

Still, there was something about this woman that drew him closer, like a moth to a candle flame. He could not resist moving towards her, wanting to see her face, masked though it might be.

"Mamselle?" he heard one tentative guest ask this strange, oddly fascinating lady, as he approached. "What are you known as?"

She turned her head towards the unwitting man, and he blanched white at what he saw. Her words, floating through the air, rooted Raoul to the spot.

"I am the Corpse Maiden."

He knew that voice. He _knew _it.

_**Christine?**_

He was not aware that he had spoken aloud until her eyes swivelled around to meet his. Yes, they were still _her _eyes, but set in a pretend visage that was almost unrecognisable; a curious half mask that stretched across the upper face and nose and down her left cheek, leaving only her mouth and her right cheek bare. He had to admit, it was a fantastic creation, almost like a second skin, and rather enchanting…right until he noticed what the left side of the mask made her face look like.

_Oh, my-_

"_Raoul." _

He could not help starting, as her familiar, beloved voice hissed right in his ear – but she was still standing so far away, her eyes turned away from him! What was this? Was he going mad at last?

"_Raoul! It _is_ me! Don't look at me, but listen!"_

This time, he saw her lips move, however slightly; and by some strange, twisted means the teeth shown on the side of the mask seemed to move as well, giving the impression that a piece of her face really _had_ been ripped away, leaving the bare skull open to the air.

No wonder the man had turned white.

All he could do at this instant was obey. He obediently turned his eyes to settle on a woman, dressed all in black and her eyes lined with khol and smiling at some unseen joke someone must have just told her, instead; resisting the urge to look back at his fiancée, or shake his head to see if he was only dreaming all this. If this was a dream, it was a good dream, of sorts.

"_Listen carefully, now, Raoul," _her voice hissed, as if she were right next to him._ "Go out of the ballroom, to the ante-chamber. You remember…?"_

He remembered times long past, when they would sneak down with Celandine and Genevieve to steal sticky treats from the refreshment tables set out in adjoining chambers, before being caught by their elders and shooed back off to bed. He remembered.

"_I'll come to you there. Now go, quickly, but take care!"_

He could do nothing else but set off at once for the doorway out, pushing his way as gently as he could through the raucous, buoyant crowds, all the while casting snide looks behind him, and was rewarded by an occasional flash of grey at the corner of his vision, as her pale shadow followed his own dark one.

It was a relief when he fought free of the crowds, and stepped out into the blessedly cool hall, free of any guests or servants, and at once into the ante-room. He had barely turned to close the door behind him when it snapped shut under Christine's gloved fingers, and he found himself caught once more in her brown gaze, now trembling with dampness.

"Oh, Raoul…" she sighed, as if in deep pain. "Raoul, I'm so glad to see you." But she didn't sound glad. She didn't sound glad at all.

But she was here. She was here, in front of him, however changed, and as far as he could tell she was real. He wanted to take her into his arms, and hold her so that he could feel her heart beating, so that he would be sure she _was _real. Later, perhaps, he might ask where she had been, but for now…

"Oh, _Christine."_ He reached out to her, longing to touch her, enfold her in his embrace, kiss her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, in sheer love and thankfulness. He was like a pail of sweet water, brimming over. "Christine, thank God you're back! And you're safe"

"No. Don't thank God." The pretty, vapid face was lowered, the eyes torn away from him. "And don't touch me either, Raoul."

The sudden harshness in her voice stopped his fingers inches from her skin. "Christine…what...?"

Silk clad fingers came to her hairline to press against her skin, as her head bent further, in dejection. "Oh, Raoul, I'm…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but please…please, don't come closer, or…just don't." She drew back towards the door, as if to emphasise her point.

He felt as if all the sweet water in him had drained out. What was going on here? "But, but Christine, where have you _been? _What happened to you yesterday? Where-"

Her raised hand motioned him to silence. "I'm sorry Raoul, but that I cannot tell you. I swore I wouldn't."

"What?" He felt his relief abruptly burn away, to be replaced with annoyance, and more than that. "You cannot tell me? You ride away to visit the parson without any explanation, you've been away _all_ night, you arrive without any warning in this-" he waved a hand at her sinister apparel, "this _outfit_, able to speak in my ear while standing far away, and you cannot tell me where you've been? Do you have _any _idea what's it's been like in you absence? What it's done to us? We've been trying to cover up for you all day, and you say you can't even tell me where you _went?"_

"Yes, Raoul. That is exactly what I am saying. And since you don't seem to be taking it very well, perhaps I should leave."

"No." He darted forward and slammed his hand down on the door, so that she could not open it and slip away. "No. I want answers, Christine. I want to know what you've been doing, while we've all been wondering whether you were alive or dead, and trying not to let my dear relatives find out." He found the edge of his mask with his other hand, ripped it off, instead of shaking her like he wanted to, to get some sense out of her. "Tell me!"

"And I tell you that I can't, Raoul," she retorted. "I'm sorry for all that you have gone through, truly I am. But I simply cannot."

"But _why?"_ he raged, longing to tear off her mask and – he didn't know whether to shake her or kiss her now, she was so close and so full of stubborn pride, her rosebud lips set so firmly in a scowl. "Why can't you? What's the meaning of this farce?"

"Oh, Raoul." Without barely a movement, her hands, both whole and seeming skeletal, went to the back of her head, and slipped off the beautiful, death's-head mask. "Dear, it is a tragedy."

He did more than start; he drew back in barely suppressed horror, his hand leaving the door and going to his mouth barely allowing a moan to escape. However terrible the mask had been, to him it was nowhere near as terrible as what lay under it. Christine's beloved features, the memory of which had sustained him in the darkest moments of the day, had altered drastically, dramatically; a deathly pallor seemed to have washed over them. She was as beautiful as ever, but that beauty had changed from spring to winter seemingly overnight. Yesterday afternoon there had been roses in her cheeks and the wonder of youth in her eyes; tonight she might well have risen from the fresh grave and only just thrown off her winding cloth, her loveliness drained of all colour, though not yet withered by the mausoleum.

_Merciful heaven!_

"Christine! Oh, Christine!" He could not hold back a sudden sob, at her pitiful state. "Oh, my beloved, what's happened to you? You look so ill! You're sick!"

"I am not ill, Raoul," she replied quietly, leaning back against the door, and letting her poor, tired eyes close. "Not by any mortal means. Where I have been there is no illness, heaven help me! But I have been sickening for home and for all I love for a long time."

Taking advantage of her closed eyes, he quickly reached out a hand to feel her forehead. He flinched again at what he felt, though he did not remove his hand from her precious skin. "Your skin! My God, Christine, you're _freezing!_ You're so cold!"

"But you give me warmth," she muttered distractedly, as she leaned into his palm. Then she drew hurriedly away again, much to his disappointment, raising her hands to redo her mask to her face. "I must go, Raoul."

_Nonononononono-_

"But – no!" he managed desperately. "What do you mean, go? How can you come here and then leave again at once?"

Her brown eyes gazed out again at him through porcelain holes, and the sadness held in them was enough to break his heart again, if it were not already seemingly broken. "Because I gave my word, Raoul. I am not here under my own will, but under that of another, and I dare not break my promise. I have been allowed to see you, and let you know that I am alive and safe; and now I have to leave. That is what was agreed. I cannot go back on it now, or else I risk everything."

"But look here," he grated, grabbing her slim wrist as it came from her temples, willing with all that was left of his heart and might and soul, "what do you mean? What is this bargain? And who is this 'other'?"

"Raoul, don't ask," his fiancée said swiftly, desperation entering her voice as well. "I beg you, don't even think of it, or otherwise you stray into deadly peril! You are already in risk of it. Do not tempt fate!"

"I shall risk anything, if you're in danger!"

"Danger? I have nothing to fear from _him,_ except for _you! _I know that your life would be worth not so much as the smallest insect to be crushed under a boot; less than that! And so I _must _go; and you must not follow me." Her bone clad hand went to his face; with a shock her fingers truly felt as if they had been stripped of skin and bone. She whispered fiercely, "In the name of our love, Raoul, do not come after me when I leave this room, or otherwise you are doomed! Swear you will not! Swear for my sake as well as your own!"

And he was lost. He knew he could never refuse her anything.

"I swear it."

She nodded, and had taken her hand away when he burst out again: "But how can I not? How shall I find you again?"

"I don't know." Her voice shook, and her eyes behind the mask shone with tears. "Truly I do not know, Raoul. But know this. I love you. I _love _you. And I will do whatever I can to find my way back to you."

_No, please, please don't go, _he wept, as he stretched out his hand to her one last time, in a vain attempt to take hers, for she shied away again. _Don't leave me alone._

_Not again._

"But how shall I find you again, if you will not tell me who holds you in thrall?"

She shot a glance to the door, and then back at him. Then she clenched her teeth, both real and illusion.

And her disembodied voice slipped again into his ear, without passing her lips.

"_Et in Arcadia ego."_

She had pulled open the door and was gone in a rustle of silk before he had time to process the sentence. He let her go, still blinking slowly.

_Et in Arcadia ego._

Times flowed back into his mind, when they were children, and Christine's father had taught them phrases in Latin which had made them laugh. _Cogito ergo sum, simper fidelis, veni, vidi, vici. _The meaning for this sentence came easily to him.

_I am even in Paradise._

What did she mean? Did she mean that she had actually been _in _a type of Paradise? But then why was she so sad, so pale and drawn. But no, that was not the true meaning. Daddy Daaé had taught them that the phrase had a hidden meaning. Something that was always there, even in Paradise.

_I am even in Paradise._

He felt a shriek start up within him; screaming and screaming.

_I am even in Paradise._

_Death._

_Death._

_Even in Paradise, there I am._

_Death._

_**Death.**_

"Christine," he croaked. Then his bones unfroze; he leapt to the door and pulled it open again. "Christine!"

He checked at the sight that met him in the hall.

Christine was standing there, her head bowed, her hands clasped in front of her, the death's-head side of her mask out of sight. She stood in front of a most singular individual; a man, tall, well built, dressed all in scarlet, with doublet and breeches and coat and immense velvet cloak trailing on the floor behind him, all in that same, ghastly colour, save for his knee high black leather boots and tricorn hat. Even the lace at his throat and cuffs was blood red, and his mask was as black as a night devoid of moon or stars – save that two yellow flames seemed to burn within. If ever Mephistopheles had walked the earth by day or by night to tempt souls to damnation, surely he must have taken some gruesome form like to this.

The man, or creature, or whatever it was, seemed to have finished speaking to Christine. By some odd chance of fate, as the head straightened and turned, the eyes alighted on him, as he stood paralysed in the doorway. The twin yellow fires blazed – and then the mouth smiled a crooked smile, revealing several yellowed teeth more like to fangs; while the right arm snaked around an unresisting Christine's waist and pulled her close, the left reached up past the sable temple and tipped the tricorn, be-feathered hat lightly to him – allowing him to see that the hand consisted far more of bone than of flesh.

"Christine!" he cried again, darting forward – but too late, too late. Even as she looked up with horror and dismay at him, there was a flash as if from the very gulf of Hell itself, blinding him; and when he could see again both his beloved and her sinister companion were gone, leaving nothing but the merest trace of her perfume on the air.

He stood still in the empty corridor, hearing the sound of the masquerade continuing beyond the door, but no longer registering.

_Et in Arcadia ego._

_

* * *

Check-mate, little Vicomte._

_I win._

* * *

"Well, my dear, that was an interesting evening, I must say. Did you enjoy yourself?"

She buried her face into his chest, the raw scent increasing the tears that had sprung to her eyes at the last sight of Raoul's dear, desperate, hopeless face, as she had vanished.

"Take me back, if you must do so, Erik. Just take me back."

"As you wish. I am bored with this party anyway. Let us depart."

She cried all the way back to the wood. She didn't want to give him that satisfaction. But she couldn't help it.

_

* * *

A very interesting evening indeed. I feel so…alive._

_But not as alive as when you are in my arms, my darling._

_Whoever said death is forever?_

* * *

When an uninvited guest leaves, most attendants of a gathering only notice by the sudden, mysterious relief that floats upon the air; perhaps the abrupt absence of a smell that they had unconsciously become accustomed to, or a texture that no longer washes over them, or an unimportant sound they can no longer hear.

For some at the ball that night, they were left with a feeling that they had missed a chance, missed something very important – and the most annoying thing was, they didn't even know what that chance _was._

For others – those who had watched but had not seen as The Devil apparently walked through their midst with his rotting, decaying spouse on his arm – they were struck, when they least expected it, with the enigmatic thought that they had had a very, _very _lucky escape.

For one exhausted, tearful maid, disguised in silks and satins and abandoned by the doorway, eating sugared plums, it was the sudden knowledge of the tears of someone very like her, but different in many ways.

And for one young man left bereft outside the dance and the noise and the colour and the light, it seemed to him as if the night and the darkness had swallowed the love of his life, and his hope along with it.

Perhaps it had.

**

* * *

Well, my dears, had fun? I _hope_ so! So, let us take a tally of costumes:**

**Raoul – …nothing much, unless you want to go for one of those drinking operas where everyone's in Russian boyar outfits, even the women sometimes (!).**

**Cecile – I don't know why, but for some reason whenever I see this dress in the film, I always think of _The Nutcracker._ Perhaps the Sugar Plum fairy?**

**Erik – Mephistopheles, so I'm guessing you're thinking of _Faust_. Of course, how that character is dressed is usually up to the director, but I'm thinking of P.G. Wodehouse's Jeeves' books, where one of the characters dresses up as Mephistopheles in a slightly over the top red ensemble, complete with a ridiculous goatee beard and red tights. Thank goodness I didn't go that far, huh?**

**Christine – If you can't guess this one, I'm not even going to _bother._ **

**Though perhaps I might forgive you if you thought of _Gisele _– that was just what was running through my mind the first time I saw the trailer for _Corpse Bride. _I mean, they even follow the same story line – young woman gets spurned, dies on sword blade, gets buried, one night comes back from the dead to scare the pants off whatever unfortunate male happens to be standing nearby at the time. _You _do the maths.**

**Meg – this one might not be so obvious, but the red colour of the dress and the feathers in the hair allude to the title character in Igof Stravinsky's ballet _The Firebird,_ perhaps my most favourite ballet ever. **

**Comte Phillipe the Younger and Madame Giry – the naval officer and the geisha (can't remember their names) in _Madame Butterfly._ I swear I only thought of this after starting this chapter. It might have been more appropriate in this sense to have given Celandine and her husband these characters, since the naval officer in my opinion chalks up there as one of the greatest love rats in opera; but I felt there was only room for one woman in a kimono. And I'm sure Giry would agree with me. At least I didn't make her a character from _The Merry Widow._**

**Louis – The Duke in _Rigoletto._ Now _this _character is a love rat in the extreme! Not only does he bed successive amounts of women before casting them away, he also has the nerve to sing a song entitled 'Women are fickle'! Makes you wonder what Rigoletto's daughter saw in him, really.**

**Celandine – her mermaid-like costume is a tribute to a perhaps less well-known ballet, _Ondine,_ about a water spirit and a mortal man who fall in love, and subsequently are rather persecuted. Rather like 'Romeo and Juliet – _Under Da Sea!'; _only without any singing crabs. However, I also chose the outfit for less tasteful reasons – in past centuries, the mermaid was often seen as a sign of wantonness in women; and if Celandine's family found out about her little secret, being labelled wanton would be the least of her worries!**

**Genevieve and Bernard – I'm not sure exactly what you would call these two. In my opinion, it's most likely to be Titania and Oberon, from _A Midsummer Night's Dream. _Don't really know _why _exactly; it's probably because they're just about the only noble couple in opera or ballet that I can think of at short notice that _aren't_ trying to catch each other out and trick each other. No, wait, on second thoughts…no, let's just stick with the fairy-king-and-queen theory. Or maybe Theseus and Hippolyta?**

**Piangi (yes, that _is_ Piangi!) and Carlotta – Harlequin and Columbine. Strictly speaking these two aren't from opera or ballet, but they are from Italian plays, and I like them so much – especially after finding out more about them during my trip to Venice last year – that I felt that I _had_ to include them. They're part of a series of comic Italian plays, in which Harlequin usually plays the clown, and Columbine plays his love interest. He wears, as mentioned above in the text, a suit made up of different coloured diamonds of cloth, though more from being so poor that he has to wear patch-work clothes than from any design or weave in the fabric; and he wears a comic black mask. Columbine often dresses as a shepherdess, or something to that effect, with lots of lace, and she usually goes without a mask.**

**Comte Phillipe the Elder – Richard the Third. Again, this is a play more than anything else, but I wanted to include this as a not so subtle tribute to a devoted fan. Cough, cough. And now I'm done. Seriously, though, I think they really need to make this into an opera, if not a ballet. (No. Definitely _not _a ballet.) Far more people die in it than Othello, after all, in far more interesting ways; and it has one of the most compelling villains ever written – plus, so many good opportunities to burst into song! I personally think the only reason it hasn't been done yet is because there isn't someone who's been able to write a good piece for a man who's bent over with a hump on his back (even though he didn't really have a hump – his shoulder was just higher than the other one, I tell you! IT WAS JUST HIGHER!) _and_ a limp. But then again, they did it for Rigoletto… **

**Also, there is a reference – or more than one - to another of my very favourite reads in literature, even if it is rather controversial. The reading, I mean, not the reference. Haven't guessed? I'll give you a clue. **

**You can think of Erik and Christine stepping out together as Lucifer and Mazikeen, if you like. I always feel sorry for Mazikeen. How hard must it be to talk when you only have half your lips?'**

**Not much of a clue? Depends on how much you read. **

**

* * *

Well, I'm afraid that this might be it for a while – not that I'm abandoning this phic, or any of my writing; not by any means! But I _do _need to study, unfortunately, if I want to get good AS results, and therefore good A levels, and thus get into a good university (yay, I'm thinking ahead, go me!). So I might not be posting in the near future. Never mind, there'll be _lots _after I've finished the exams, that a promise. Right until I go off to Mongolia for a month…**

**In the meantime, just bask in the goodness of it all.**

**

* * *

Chips and out, from the Half-Irish Seamstress (who would really like some reviews, please!).**

**(And yes, that was Erik in the Italics. But you knew that already, didn't you?)**


	34. Why Lazarus sighs

**Disclaimer: I don't own POTO, or Corpse Bride. But you get to read this any way, you lucky lot.**

**

* * *

What the above said. Just be grateful, please. And hopefully don't get too informed, otherwise it'll all be ruined! (Dramatic sob.) **

**And there isn't any Sandman in this. Yes, that was the controversial literature mentioned at the end of the last chapter.**

**All right, so maybe it isn't literature. So hang me.**

**

* * *

Acts of injustice done **

**Between the setting and the rising sun**

**In history lie like bones, each one.**

**W.H. Auden _The Ascent of F.6_**

**

* * *

**

Why Lazarus sighs

The journey back had been terrible. For some insane reason, she had not thought she would be making this journey again. As if, by some miracle, Raoul would rescue her from the devil that carried her back in silky iron chains, who had wrapped her in folds of blood and ferried her to the underworld. But Raoul had been in no state to work miracles, and she was in no state to hope for them any longer.

Not now that he had seen her.

_What must he think of me?_

As soon as the gondola grated on the shoreline, Christine sprang from her seat among the cushions, without waiting passively for Erik to lift her out as he had done on the past three occasions, and raced towards the stairs that led to where she had left her clothes.

_Thank the Lord, I can finally take these things off. _As she ran, she began to peel off the horrid, curious gloves; she had grown to hate their feel upon her fervently. As soon as she was able, she would throw the wretched mask into the lake as well. She hated it, she hated it, she hated it all; she hated every _stitch _of the costume that had so appalled everyone, including Raoul.

_Oh, Raoul…_

"Changing so soon?" How on earth could he be behind her so quickly? She didn't indulge him by jumping, but kept her back to him as she stripped the other glove off and flung it away. Even out of the corner of her eye, she saw a black hand catch hold of the grey silk and whip it out of sight.

"Do you not like your costume, Christine? I do. It shows that beauty is not just skin deep."

"I will not dress up like a corpse just so that you can indulge in your perverted fantasies, Erik," she shot over her shoulder, as she grabbed hold of the mask and pulled it off.

"My fantasies are probably more tasteful than the ones the boy has about you."

She longed with a fierce, urgent desire to deal him a blow across the face with the mask, to smash what normal teeth he had left and to make him bleed; but she did not quite dare. Instead, she turned slowly – oh, so slowly! – to face him. How had he managed to change his mask? Gone was the sable façade of Mephistopheles; instead the bone whiteness of the half-mask had returned once again. A small smile curled the corner of his mouth.

Oh, how she hated him. How she _hated _him now.

"Don't you _ever_ dare talk about him like that again." She resisted the idea to smash and shatter the mask against the platform to make her point, and instead set it down with more care than was probably needed.

"Why not? He is only a man, after all – all men have flaws."

"Except you, of course?" she retorted.

"Of course," he replied, blithely. "I am much more than a man now, after all. I have much higher sights than the pleasures of the flesh."

"Really? Then you will excuse me if I ask for the return of my ring. After all, you can get no satisfaction from wearing it around what's left of your fingers." The words came out before she could think.

There was silence between the two. When he spoke, his voice was calm and controlled, but with the slightest hint that the control could soon be lost. "And why would I do that?"

"It's Raoul's, and you know it! You did that just to taunt him, I saw you!"

"Saw _what,_ my dearest?"

"Erik, I saw you. You let him see the ring on purpose when you raised your hand! Of course he'd recognise it – _why _did you do it? Do you want me to break his heart again and again?"

_Oh, what can he be thinking now?_

"Perhaps. But it was a foil, of course. The gauntlet thrown. As a master of accomplished torture, I indulge in it whenever I bait my enemies; even the less worthy ones."

The scorn in his voice hit her like a palpable blow, even though it was not directed at her. But she did not care; she couldn't let him get away with that. She couldn't let him insult her beloved, not after what he had done, and she had let him do.

"Why do you hate him so much, Erik?" she snarled, her nerves already rubbed raw by tyranny. "You don't even know him! What has he ever done to _you_, to make you hate him so?"

"Apart from the obvious?"

"_Yes_, apart from the obvious – whatever that is!"

His lips parted in a sneer, showing white teeth along yellow. "He is a de Chagny. All that family are pure poison."

"And how would _you_ know?" _I've had enough. _Even as she spoke, she turned to flounce up the stairs to her clothes.

Between breath and breath Erik had closed the gap between them and his arms were tight around her, like bars of iron, crushing her to him. She was forced up against his chest, her body arched against his, her head craned up to his eyes by one of his hands, caught in her hair.

_This would be much more bearable if he actually had a heartbeat, _she thought, even as she struggled in fury. "Let go of me at once!"

"No. For once, you're going to listen to what I have to say, instead of running away. Do you remember I told you about my mother?"

She scowled, letting the ugliness in her mind loose. "Of course. How could I forget?"

"But what do you remember?"

"She loved you, despite your face. She was…schizophrenic. You were separated, and she was put in an asylum. You saw her once, years later. She died soon after. What of it?" she added challengingly; yet she hid her sudden trepidation. Why had Erik suddenly brought up this subject again, when it obviously was so painful to him?

The sneer was now the smile of a fallen angel. "What if I told you, that the ones who had her put into that self same asylum, where she suffered so much that I prayed for her death…were the de Chagny's?"

It took a moment for his word's to make sense. When they did, she could hardly speak. "It isn't true."

"You think I would lie about _this,_ my angel? It _is _true. You know I tell no lie."

Her head moved without any thought, whether in acquiesce or denial she knew not.

"Well, believe what you will. We lived on land that belonged to them. What they said was law in our village. They deemed her a danger to society, her eccentricities a growing threat. They judged her, and they found her wanting. So they shut her away. They do that to anyone they don't want or can't use, you know."

His hand came from her hair, to clasp her chin so that she could not help but look up at him and be transfixed by his golden gaze, much as she longed desperately to.

"When I finally saw her again, she was half-starved, whimpering at light, hardly able to speak; cowering away from contact like a beaten child, lost in her own nightmares. She had been abused, Christine, in ways that I would not care to relate lest your delicate ears are harmed. And it was your beloved Raoul's family who put her there, who delivered her into a hell from which she could not be released."

"So you hate them, because they drove your mother to her grave?" All the rage had drained from her now, to be replaced with sorrow. She hadn't known, she hadn't _known…_

If it was possible to hold her tighter yet to him, then he did so. She could hardly breathe, yet all thoughts of breathing had fled; looking into his yellow eyes, she seemed to see far more than death in form, but death in soul. She felt her own mind shrink away, yet she could not move.

"Now, Christine," he hissed, drawing her closer, fatally closer, guiding her face up towards his own as he bent forward, "now I will tell you a secret that not even Nadir knows." His hand under her chin pulled her head forward gently, irresistibly, to his lips; past his lips. What could she do but obey? His lips brushed her ear, and the feel of them shivered through her.

"I killed her," came his sibilant murmur, his hand at the small of her back to hold her tightly to him, so that her rapidly quickening heartbeat shuddered through both of them. "I killed my mother. My beautiful mother. I killed her, Christine. She was the one I loved more than anything in the whole world, in all my life; and I _killed_ her."

"No," she whispered. Her voice came from some far away, distant plain; the creak of a closing door on a mausoleum, the snapping shut of a coffin lid. "Oh no. No, Erik. No."

"I crept into the asylum at night," he went on, ignoring her voice, his eyes now looking through her, beyond her. "It was easy. A child could have done it. Getting into one of those places is far easier than getting out. I found her locked in her room – in her _cell. _I fed her the poison I had brought with me. I knew all about poisons by then. I watched her die before me. The wardens never knew the difference. They thought that she had died in her sleep. That fate should have been hers. But she was left to wither away in a cell, like an animal – an animal in a cage. There was nothing left in her, nothing at all. It was like releasing a dog that begged to die. Better that, than to die mortified."

His moan ripped her soul and heart in two, in one brutal sob. "She was my _mother_, Christine. It was all I could do. It was the only thing I could do. I loved her, and I _killed her-"_

Abruptly, he shoved her harshly away from him; still supported by phantom limbs she stumbled backwards, tripped, fell over her voluminous skirts and landed hard on the floor, with the breath knocked out of her and one elbow screaming at her from where it had hit the floor.

_Oh, Erik…I'm so sorry…_

She looked up from the ground, heart hammering, to meet Erik's eyes, now delirious with rage, his teeth, fangs, bared, as if to tear out her throat. In the midst of her mind-numbing fear, she recalled the first time she had mentioned Raoul's name, and his reaction.

Now, finally, she understood.

_I'm so sorry._

"You say Raoul's heart will break, Christine? Well, mine has already been broken by his family, years ago, and my mind, and my soul too! They took _everything_ from me, Christine. _Everything. _Do you understand that?"

"Erik," she forced herself to speak, but at once he cut in sourly, his voice stinging like a cut, slicing through her ears. "No, I see you don't understand. Very well, I'll make it simpler for you." He bent forward, his bony knee hitting the sand with a dull thud, his cloak falling over her, covering her legs, his face on a level with hers, his right arm circling about her waist to lift her up off the ground. She would not let herself look away, even so. To do so would be a treachery.

"I hate the de Chagny's for what they did to me. I hate them for what they did to my mother, and for what they drove me to do so that she might know the peace she so rightly deserved, and which God would not grant her. There are other reasons, which you do not need to know." He paused, and for at least three of her panting breaths he did nothing. He was so close, she could see the stray hairs on the side of his face that moved in the breeze of her exhalations. Then, he startled her by going on.

"But most of all, Christine, deep within my hatred for them, it is not them that I hate. No, it is true. I do not hate them."

He reached out his bare hand, and his fingers brushed her face. She was so cold, so devoid of feeling, she hardly paid heed to the rasp of bone. Instinctively she leant towards it, so that his palm cupped her cheek, what was left of his thumb touched her lips. She could feel where the flesh ended, and the bone began. All the time her eyes never left his, inviting him to say more.

And he did; so softly and full of self-loathing as to make her sing out her sorrow in weeping.

"I hate what they made me into."

**

* * *

And cut. A move along in the plot was in order, I felt, because we can't have Christine go on feeling sorry for herself all the time, because that just makes us want to use a cute little alien to suck out her moping little brain through her pink shell-like ear and replace it with one that is more inclined to do something about the situation – like either kill Erik or kiss him. Not that the former would have much effect, if you think about it. **

**The brain-sucking thing probably wouldn't work either, because I have yet to encounter any alien that can get a brain out through an ear all in one piece.**

**And I have new angst for Erik in his past! If I'm not careful, I'm going to make a Gary-Stu out of him (Heaven help us so that such a terrible Apocalypse shall not be reached!) Now perhaps you can see why he's a bit messed up. All right, more than a bit messed up.**

**If you think that I might be a bit overboard on the stuff about the mental hospital, remember that this is the nineteenth century – they've only just stopped allowing civilians in to watch the lunatics and laugh at them, as if they were some sort of sideshow. There's one thing to be said for the Puritans; they took good care of the mentally ill, a sentiment which was lost for the next century or so. At any rate, even at this stage in proceedings the wardens were still putting the patients in straight-jackets or chaining them to beds to keep them quiet. Admittedly these hospitals were few and far between – in the Bethlem Medical Hostpital, for example, where I did some work experience in the archives last year, they looked after their patients very well, and didn't use straight-jackets or leather mittens manacled onto the hands to prevent the patient from scratching their face at least after 1850 or so. But, since this is an AU, and I'm not sure exactly _when _it's taking place – the nineteenth century is basically all the same to me, defined only by the corsets and the crinolines – let us say this hospital is the sort which made Mr. Rochester prefer to lock his wife in the attic.**

**

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So, yes. Review, and perhaps I shall give you one more chapter before I really _have_ to sign off for a while. And…perhaps…it shall be a flashback? **

**Oh yes, and I'll be a satisfied little half- Irish seamstress if you do?**


	35. Mother

**Discalimer: I do not own any of it.**

**

* * *

I saw your mother, Moira said.**

**Where? I said, I felt jolted, thrown off. I realized I'd been thinking of her as dead.**

**Not in person, it was in that film they showed us, about the Colonies. There was a close-up, it was her all right. She was wrapped up in one of those grey things but I know it was her.**

**Thank God, I said.**

**Why, thank God? said Moira.**

**I thought she was dead.**

**She might as well be, said Moira. You should wish it for her.**

**The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood.**

**

* * *

"We drive matricides from their homes ... Since a mother's blood leads us, we will pursue our case against this man and we will hunt him down ..."**

**The ERINYES. Aeschylus, ****_Eumenides_**** 210, 230**

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* * *

**

Mother

He remembered.

Long after Christine had gotten up and made her silent way to the bed chamber, he sat by the organ and remembered.

No. He tried _not _to remember. He tried as hard as he could to keep them back, he tried so damn _hard…_

_How have I been doing this so effortlessly?_

For so many years, for so long, he'd kept it at bay, kept it safe. Locked within him, his secret, his secret that no one else knew. But now…now _she _knew. And he had said it. He'd admitted it. He had admitted what he'd done. _I killed my mother. _He'd told her. He'd told _her_. And the walls, the walls he had made to protect himself, the walls he had made to defend himself from what he'd done, to keep himself alive after what he had done, to keep what was left of his sanity, polished and made opaque, effortlessly over the years, the walls, _the walls-_

The walls came tumbling down.

_

* * *

Her smile was like the wide crescent moon, turned on its side, only unlike the moon it was always there, not a few days in a month, but always, always. She smiled when she talked, she smiled when she prepared food, she smiled at all those around her. When she did her work she sang._

_But her greatest beauty was not her smile, it was what appeared when she smiled, what it did to her cheeks, set high on her face like tiny rosy apples. He would often reach up, trying to pluck the fruit that appeared when she smiled, which was often. When he'd realised that they were not to be had, he'd licked her instead, hoping for a taste. That was make her laugh, from deep in her belly. Then she'd lean forward, and touch her nose to his, and then kiss him on one cheek, and then on the other, and finally on the mouth…_

_

* * *

No! No!_

He grabbed his head in his hands, bending over in his seat, trying desperately to think of something, anything but that, anything but those kisses.

Something swam in front of his eyes; a sketch for _Don Juan _he had drawn idly, in fancy. Of Aminta, in her corset and gossamer skirt, her shoulders outrageously bare.

It seized him again, doubling him over.

_

* * *

She would rise early every morning in her corset and chemise, and wash herself thoroughly and dress herself, before coming to wake him. What she didn't know was that he was awake already, watching her from his view on the bed. He loved to see her arms and shoulders bared, pale and freckled, curving like a milk-maid's pail-carrier made flesh from white wood, and her lovely dark hair spilling down over the skin above her bodice to hang in perfect curls upon her plump breasts. He would curl into himself and watch her splash water on herself, cleansing herself, the sunlight catching every feature and outlining it in gold, revealed in all her wondrous beauty. The light shone around her and through her, and he wondered what it would be like to feel something like that – to feel something both solid and elusive. He longed to be held during that time, as he was at other times; feel the slickness of her skin as she poured the cool wetness upon it, and feel it flow onto him, carrying her own magical, mysterious water scent that only emerged when she became wet; and let the sunlight shine upon them and turn them both to glass. But he could not; he would not. This was a time for her alone, a time that excluded him; a time when she washed herself in the morning, and was once again a maiden, though set apart from other men.__

* * *

Make it stop. Please, make it stop…_

He didn't know who he was appealing to any longer. God wouldn't hear him; God had never heard him. Never, in all his years, never. But-

_

* * *

He had often been puzzled by why they went to church each Sunday. They sat alone together at the back of the church, in an otherwise empty pew, and everybody ignored them, except sometimes to point or sneer, but never to whisper. Not there. They did it outside, but not there. No one ever went near them with the collection plate. They just sat there, or stood up or knelt down when the other people did so. He was often bored._

"_It is our duty to God," she'd said, when he'd asked her why. "We show our love to Him, by going to His house each Sunday. And He shows our love to us, by forgiving us for what we have done wrong."_

"_But if He loves us, wouldn't He forgive us for not going to His house?" he had asked._

"_Perhaps, but we also go to His house to give Him our thanks. And I have a special thing to thank Him for."_

"_What?"_

"_You," she'd said, putting her arms around him. "God gave you to me, Erik, and as long as I live I shall be forever grateful to Him for that."_

_He had never questioned going to church again after that._

* * *

He slumped against the organ keys, which chimed a fervent discord. With an effort, he raised a hand that seemed no longer his, and tried to trace out a melody, some melody, that would make it go away, but the music was out of control, and it seemed to slide from his fingers like a snake, a snake in firelight…_

* * *

He'd been seven when she'd taken him to see the gypsies dance._

_When the camp had come near the town the locals had sniffed, like cats turning up their noses._

"_Vagrants."_

"_Filth."_

"_Dirty scum."_

_All the children had been admonished from going anywhere near where the wandering people had made their camp, with threats of the most terrible punishment should the order be disobeyed. But the threats had only set all the young ones on fire with curiosity, the desperate desire to know more._

_He had been called such things by them, and worse, since he had been young. He had been told he was a monster, a demon child, Satan-spawn. Women had spat at him, men's hands had itched to cuff him, the only reason the children of the village had not hit him was because they feared him as much as they hated him._

_It intrigued him to know that they had any hate left for anyone else._

_When he made his way home, he had told his mother about the camp, and at once had been caught up in her glee. She quite forgot the washing, and thought only of the new excitement. In their infectious enthusiasm they'd danced around the kitchen together, hand in hand, nearly turning over the wash-tub on the table._

"_We'll go tonight," she cried. "We'll go and see them dance, my love. If you do not see them dance, I shall blame myself forever!"_

_Only the fact that it had been daylight had prevented her from setting off at once._

_When it was dark, they'd left the house in the way that they always did when they were going truffle hunting and didn't want anyone to know, because they wanted to get the best ones first, and they'd made their way to where the fires of the camp were. He had been afraid, and had clutched her arm, especially when the demand of who they were came out of the dark. He had hidden his face in his mother's skirts, fearful of the curiosity that would turn into horror and anger._

_But then the lights were no longer glaring but welcoming: the gypsies welcomed them into the fold, like long lost relatives calling them home. There was fire, and stew, and hard bread that cracked under teeth, and talk. She had talked to them as if she had known them all her life, and from the way they called her 'Magdalene', something no one else did, they knew her as well. They'd fussed over him, calling him a fine young man, and made no comment about his mask or the face that lay beneath it. They gave them seats around the fire with them, and he felt as if his mind would overflow with the talk, the companionship. He'd hardly ever known anything like this, and he loved it._

_And then music had started up, and someone had called "Come on, Magdalene, show us you can still dance as of old!" Then she had laughed, and jumped up from her seat into the glow of the fire, and began to dance. He had watched her, still sitting, his mouth open at the sight of his beautiful, his special mother moving in such a beautiful, sinuous way, unlike anything he had ever seen before, rolling her shoulders, snapping her hips like a whip, gyrating with the rhythm of the music, her eyes transfixed with wild, dark delight, trilling away to the music and to herself as well, as she so often did now. It was terrible and beautiful, and he loved it._

_One old woman sitting next to him had sighed, and clucked her tongue. "So sad," she had whispered. "So young." When he had asked her timidly what she meant, she had only smiled at him, and whispered to him to look after her well, that she would need him soon._

* * *

She had needed him…and he had failed her. Again and again, he had failed her. Again, and again, and again, forever and ever._

* * *

The boy who had shouted "Mad bitch!", and thrown the stone at her as they were coming back from the bakery, probably had not meant to actually hit her. Most likely he just wanted to look good in front of his comrades, tormenting the resident outsider, the woman who consorted with outcasts, who gibbered to herself, who had given birth to a devil's offspring._

_He probably hadn't meant the stone to hit her._

_But it had._

_As long as he lived, and even after that, he would remember the sound the stone had made as it smacked into her forehead – like the softness of fingers tapped smartly against a table. He remembered the way she'd squeaked the second after the impact, whether in shock or pain he didn't know. He remembered how she'd swayed, and then suddenly fell forward onto her knees, her eyes wide and dark in their sockets._

_He dropped the basket. He remembered the rolls falling onto the dusty path._

_He remembered the sight and, what was more, the _smell_ of his mother's blood, as it began to seep from the gash on her forehead, delving into her hair line._

_He remembered the screams; not from her but from him as he shrieked, his arms around his mother, holding her up, that he'd kill the boy, kill him, kill him, kill him…_

_Then Father Mansert had come, the only one in the village who was nice to them, and he'd yelled at the boy and shaken him, and then pushed him away as if he had dirtied himself even touching him. He'd helped him get her back to the house, without either of them saying a word to each other. The grown man had been the one who'd held her hands as, after cleaning her wound with alcohol, even though she moaned and flinched away even from his careful fingers, he'd carefully sewn up the gash in the flesh as she had done so many times for him when the village boys had overcome their fear in favor of their hatred, working his rage into making the stitches as small and neat and strong as possible. He remembered the priest standing over her bed as she'd slept feverishly, like a guardian angel, not even protesting as he'd slipped out of the house._

_He remembered the smell of blood again, and the feel of it on his fingers; but this time it was that of the bastard boy who dared to hurt her, after he'd broken three of his teeth and his nose. He remembered standing over the weeping, sniveling, _weak _animal, and thinking:_

* * *

I could not protect her.

_I could not protect her._

_I could not protect her._

He dug his fingers into his ears, his head, gasping and moaning at that thought; his mother's blood on his hands, because he could not defend her as he should have, would have done.

_You could not save her._

_

* * *

He remembered that night._

_She'd just dished out the stew into the bowls; he was raising his spoon to his lips when there was a loud knocking at the front door. Whenever that happened at this time of night, it was never good._

_He'd looked at her, his pulse already hammering._

"_Stay quiet," she said softly, her smile gone, her face quiet and calm, but her lip slightly trembling. "They're not here for you."_

_She'd gone over to the door, and pulled it open. And the men were standing there, all of them, and they had said she would have to come with them._

"_I won't," she said simply, and even in his exquisite terror he had never felt more proud of her, and proud that he was her son._

_Then one of them grabbed her by the arm, and she had panicked as she did so often now, and screamed, batting ineffectually at him. But he'd only pulled her towards him, and she screamed all the more. _

_That made him scream. Nothing else in the world could make him scream, not even his own pain; but the pain of his mother made him shriek in torment._

_He'd leapt over the table, knocking aside the bowls and the pot and threw himself at the men, biting, kicking, punching; but they were grown men and he was only a boy, even if he could beat an adolescent youth six years his senior to a bloody pulp. One of them kicked him away, his ears ringing with his mother's screams, his mouth filling with blood from where he'd bitten his tongue._

_He'd grabbed her skirts as they dragged her away, hanging grimly on, hoping to hold her to him by simply not letting go; he was dragged across the stone of the floor painfully but still he hung on. He yelled for her, and she for him, but neither of them could reach out to each other because he didn't dare let go, and they were holding her arms._

_Then one of them had cruelly stamped on his hands and crushed down on his fingers until he _had _to let go, and he was tumbling away, his mother's face disappearing like the moon down a well, still screaming his name, and he knew that __he'd never see her again again; that no one would ever hold him or help him again; that she would be alone forever, because he had failed her._

_

* * *

I failed her._

He was on the floor now, the mantra beating through his head, like the pulse that he no longer had.

_I failed her. I failed her, and I…_

_I killed her…_

_

* * *

Opening the window was depressingly easy. He would have expected more, from such a 'high class' institute._

_She lay on the bed, but not as she once had, not with her head under her arm so that a useful pillow was provided for any little shape who slipped under the covers with her during the night. She curled into herself, like a mouse, a wounded, wretched animal. _

_She was asleep. Even when she slept, she whimpered._

_He went down on one knee beside the bed. He looked into her sleeping, shivering face, and clenched his teeth to see the greyness that had infested it._

I'm so sorry…

_Gently he blew on her face, to slowly wake her. It worked; her eyes gradually opened a fraction, then blinked at him. Still the same eyes. The eyes did not change._

_He had expected her to squeak, or squeak, or flinch away from him, as she had done with the handlers who had ministered to her while he and his companions had watched from behind the door. Instead, she looked quietly up at him._

"_Erik?" she managed._

"_Yes."_

_There were sticky, shining trails down her cheeks. She had been weeping. But she was smiling now. There was no harvest, but she was smiling._

"_My boy. My beautiful boy." She reached out, slowly, and touched his face. Her fingers felt like twigs, peeling in winter. "You're all grown now."_

"_Oh, Mama," and he broke down, like the little boy he had been. He rested his head on her shallow breast, and cried until he could cry no more. He hadn't wept since that night when she had been taken. How fitting that he should find it in him to weep now. She hissed through her teeth gently, as she had done to calm him when he was young._

"_I looked for you for so long," he said, when he could manage to talk again. "They wouldn't tell me where you were, until a little while ago. As if it were some sort of _reward. _I didn't know where they'd taken you, and I looked for so long…"_

"_So many years lost." She stroked his unmasked cheek softly, perhaps still unable to believe he was here, was real. "So many years stolen. But look at you. My fine son. My fine boy."_

"_I _won't_ forgive them for this. If I forget all else they've done, I will never forgive them for this."_

"_Don't say that." But she knew that he could not be persuaded. Heaven was gone. Hell was empty, and all the devils were inside his heart, and they raged for release._

"_How are you?"_

"…_Tired. I'm so tired of it all. I cannot remember when I last slept. I longed to dream of you. But they stole my dreams along with the years." She closed her eyes, then opened them again. "But now my dreams have come true. I knew I would see you again." She smiled. "I knew we'd meet again, my son."_

_He buried his face in her hands, since her hair was no longer there, cut short and grey. He longed to cut the throat of the one who had done the deed with their own scissor blades. "Mama, I love you so."_

"_And I love you too." _

_There was silence in the room. Even the falling moonlight made not a sound._

"_Mama, I have something for you."_

"_For me?"_

"_Yes. It will help you sleep at last." It was the last thing he wanted to do now, but then again, wasn't it what he had come to do?_

_Her eyes watched the glug of the dark liquid in the vial, and then looked at him. She knew what it contained, and what the raft would bring._

"_It is a mortal sin," she whispered. He longed to say that God wouldn't care. He longed to say that if God cared, he would not have subjected her to this life in death. He longed to say that it was a mercy which God, if he existed at all, longed to deny them._

_He said simply, "Then let your sin fall upon me instead."_

_Her mouth opened, her lips moved. "I will not let that happen. Give it to me. I have seen you again. That is enough. Now you can help me to let go." Her eyes, still the same, still the same lovely eyes brooked no disagreement._

_And after all, wasn't it what he had come to do?_

_It was so easy, in the end. She needed barely any aid to lift the vial to her lips. Once, twice she swallowed, then sighed, as if satisfying a deep thirst, and looked at him again._

"_How long?"_

"_A few minutes. You will feel no pain. It's just like going to sleep, as I told you."_

_He took the vial back, and then climbed carefully up onto the bed beside her and put his arms around her, to hold her in his embrace one last time, to feel her heart beat against him once more, and then never again. She pressed herself to him, breathing shallowly, and they lay together on the bed, his arms around her, her head on his shoulder, and looked up at the ceiling._

"_Do you remember," she said, and now her voice was slower, slightly slurred, as if she were tipsy, "how we used to sing each other to sleep at night? I'd start, and you'd always finish?"_

"_I remember." He had promised himself he would not start crying again._

"_I loved going to sleep with you in my arms. I felt as if nothing could hurt us; as if the world would crack beneath our feet and the skies would rend above us, and I would still hold you safe." She shifted slightly in his arms, so that her head was against his chest. "I love you so much, Erik," she whispered. "My boy. My gift from God. My life. My love."_

_Those were the last words she spoke. As he lay there and watched her drift into a sleep from which she never woke, he whispered lullabies that he remembered from his childhood, old songs, old tunes, serenading the one he loved more than anything else away from him, into whatever waited for her. He was determined that she would meet to music that was worthy of her._

_Eventually he could not deny that the only beating he felt was that of his own heart. Carefully, he looked down at her face – oh, so gently, as if he might still wake her, might still call her back to her prison! – and saw that her eyes were closed, her face calm and quiet as it had been when she had sat outside on rainy summer days, her lips not smiling but relaxed in her last sleep, which to him was far better. Even though she did not smile, the harvest had returned to her cheeks._

_Carefully, he withdrew his arms, and slipped off the bed. He straightened the sheets, drew the coverlet over her still warm body, checked that all was as it had been when he arrived, save for one thing, and left as silently as he had come. He allowed himself one last look over his shoulder, at the pitifully small shape in the shadows on the bed, just before he ascended from the window, locking it after him._

_The empty vial clinked softly at his side; the vial which had measured out his mother's life and death. _

_He thought of those who had led them both to this, and of his own hand which had put the poison into hers, and he had to work hard to force down his hate._

* * *

He remembered the old Greek legends he had been taught; of the Furies, the avengers of family blood spilt, who would chase after and destroy the one who committed that most heinous of all sins; the shedding of the blood of the mother. He wished they would come for him, to make an end of him once and for all; but it was too late, he could not die a second time. He must remain existent for all eternity, with what he had done, and what he had failed to do.

He had failed her, and he had killed her, and now he must pay the price.

He thought his head and dead heart would split and burst and burn from it all; the rage, the grief, the guilt, all the memory of what he had done.

_I loved her. I failed her. I **killed** her._

_I killed my mother…_

There was a soft noise that intruded into the red pain in his head. Something gentle passed across where he thought his brow might be; a silken touch of a hand. He looked up, everything swelling inside him forcing its way out through the corners of his eyes, to see an angel descending into his purgatory, an angel kneeling down beside him where, he realsied, he lay on his side, his hands clasped to his head, as if trying to shut out terrible sounds, the sounds of baying wolves, the shrieking of birds. She reached out to touch his shoulder.

Christine gulped, and tried to speak, but could not seem to find the words. She tried again, and this time they came.

"I watched my father die before me as well. My heart goes out to you."

Then, to his shock, she put her arms around him, pulling his head down onto her breast with one hand, cradling his shoulders with her other arm. She repeated her whisper: "My heart goes out to you."

He could do nothing but put his arms around her slender waist, hugging her to him, and hear her heart beat so close to him, so very close, yet so far; and soak her dress with tears, and feel her own tears reach through to his scalp.

Both the angels, one shocked and disillusioned, the other fallen and hounded to the limits of endurance, wept in each others arms, and did not let go of each other for a long time.

**

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Enough.**

**I was practically weeping as I wrote some of this. And I'm the author, I know what's going to happen? What does that say, hmm?**

**I was trying desperately not to think of Star Wars, Episode Two here, I really wasn't! Please believe me! I can't think of anything else to say now. Oh, yes: The Furies were fairly prominent in Greek mythology, as a sort of divine version of the Gestapo – only they were usually justified in what they did. They were only called into action in the worst cases, i.e. the shedding of family blood. My, but they were spooky in Neil Gaiman's The Kindly Ones. Read the comic book, I beg you, The epitome in graphic novels!**

**Now, this will DEFINITELY be the last chapter for a while, I'm afraid. Nope, sorry, but I really have to do work! Be patient, though. I plan to have something extra special for the phic's birthday…**

**In the meantime, wish me luck!**

**And also, give me some reviews! Thanks!**


	36. Frost

**Disclaimer: I don't own it. But I don't mind, because I am still happy to write it.**

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All right, so I was late for the story's birthday. So sue me. I'd like to see you lot remember stuff about teleological arguments and the like and the whole of Shakespeare's _The Tempest _and most Virgil's _Aeneid Book X _off by heart _and _have the time to write two chapters for one updates, let alone all that Latin grammar. Thankfully, I don't ever have to do it again! _Yippee!_**

**What's that, I hear you say? Did you say _two _chapters? In _one _update?**

**Oh yes. Ahem:**

**HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, L'EPOUX CADAVRE!**

_**Rejoice.**_

**

* * *

Fire and Ice**

**Some say the world will end in fire,**

**Some say in ice.**

**From what I've tasted of desire**

**I hold with those who favor fire.**

**But if it had to perish twice,**

**I think I know enough of hate**

**To say that for destruction ice**

**Is also great**

**And would suffice.**

**-- Robert Frost**

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Frost

He was so light in her arms. He felt more like a child than a grown man, really. A half decayed child, but a child nonetheless. His weight reminded her a little of that of Ayesha, but there was no chance that she would let _him _into her lap.

When had he last moved? Certainly it had not been recently, unless she counted the way he had pulled her close to him – a shocking breach of propriety, some damped down part of her mind whispered; but then again when it came to propriety she did not particularly excel herself, now.

He really was _very _still. He had even stopped crying. His shoulders no longer shook. He really was a – she hated to think it, but it must be said – a dead weight.

Carefully she lowered her head, so that her voice reached his ear. "Erik?"

She had not been expecting the answer that she did not get in any case. He did not even give any sign that he had heard her. His head slid against the front of her bodice as she carefully lowered him, stray hairs catching on the still damp material. His arm dragged on her waist, meaning that she had to bend over him more than slightly as she laid him down on the floor.

She thought about checking his eyes, to see if they were in focus. _But what's the use of that?_ In any case, his eyes were tightly closed, as if he had only stopped himself from weeping by simply refusing to let them out, and without her help at all.

"Erik?" she repeated leaning down towards her ear, and hoping he didn't open his eyes too soon – she was, after all, giving him a rather good view of her bosom, since it was practically brushing his own chest. She steeled herself then – _Dare I? – _and reached out, and touched his face, and was shocked to feel just how very cold it was. Even when she had been pressed to him before, he had never felt as cold as this. Then again, it was probably the first time _she_ had actually touched _him_ skin to skin. It was a sobering thought.

_Probably…_

But even that failed to gain any reaction from the one beneath her, who really now did look very much as if he were asleep, besides already being dead.

It was so hard to tell if he was actually aware. No breath to listen to, no rise and fall of the chest, no heart beat, no pulse – if you cared to put your fingers to his throat, that is. Nothing.

Her fingers moved up his face, tracing the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his temple, to rest upon his forehead, close to the white porcelain of the mask. Not a quiver, not a twitch, not a sigh. His skin was like ice against the soft fleshiness of her fingers; she could actually feel the heat from them turning to water against the impossible bone-dryness, making him clammy to the touch.

"Erik?"

There was even a chill emanating from the arm that was still wrapped around her waist, pulling her down towards him. As gently as she could, she detached it; resisting the almost absurd impulse to lay it across his chest, in the manner of a body in a coffin, she instead placed it gently by his side. Then she examined his face again, hoping for some, any sign, of awareness, if not life. But there was nothing.

Feeling excessively foolish, she prepared her voice, and then softly sang his name. _"Erik…"_

What she had been thinking that would achieve, God only knew, but again there was nothing. She hissed through her teeth and sat back on her heels, so that she could think. But she over balanced slightly, and in putting out a hand to steady herself her fingers met something even colder than Erik's skin.

She looked carefully at the rime of frost that had formed on the candelabra at her side, and then at her own red, sore fingers. The metal had been so cold, it had _burned _with cold. Then she looked around the rest of the lair, to see that frost had formed on all the candlesticks, on the various mirrors situated about the place, on the pipes of the pipe organ; on everything. Even as she watched the mirror opposite her and Erik, situated next to the steps that led down to the docking point, slowly iced over, obscuring her shape, her face, her staring eyes, and finally Erik's prostrate form as well.

Christine bit her lip, hard, and looked down at the body in front of her again. Why she didn't know, but her memory was suddenly drawing forth images of that first night (if she could call it that) when Erik had been murderous at the mention of Raoul's name. At the time she hadn't had eyes for anything but _his_ face, but now that she recalled, she remembered that various things had been happening around them – mirrors smashing, candelabras flaring with huge flames, tapestries ripping and tearing themselves. And then, all was mended, or at least mending itself, when he had calmed down.

Only, judging by the catatonic state the master was now in, the lair would not be repairing itself any time soon.

She turned to look at the mirror again, just in time to see a crack slowly running up its frost-covered surface, growing up like a young sapling and spreading out steady jagged branches of other cracks, until even if the mirror had been clear, the reflection it would give would be destroyed.

As she watched it through to the end, she now realised what was happening; even if Erik's grief was delayed, it was still destroying him.

She remembered a time when the world was dark to her, when it had seemed as if the sun would never shine again, and it would be winter in her heart forever and evermore. And she thought that perhaps she and Erik were not so very different, after all.

_What_ _shall I do?_

What could she do? She was effectively trapped here, in surroundings that, even if they did not affect her so much, were still slowly decaying. Who could help her, help them? At once she thought of Nadir, but he was in the Necropolis, and she had no idea how to use the boat, nor how to get there – she didn't dare risk tipping herself or him into that terrible blue water, or spend the rest of eternity pushing that boat along until she fell in simply out of weariness. They were alone, trapped in the lair.

_Well, being trapped is no new experience, surely. The only real difference is that he unaware._

For one thing, she was not about to leave him by the water, like an ugly toy dropped and forgotten. She had to get him to the bed, if only because that was the only place she could think of to put an unconscious being. _But how to get him there?_ He was at least a head taller than her and heavy into the bargain; she could hardly drag him up the steps, and there was no way she could actually lift him.

But she had to try, so she sighed and slipped her arm under his shoulders. But to her astonishment, there was barely any weight now as she lifted, barely any at all. She found it disturbingly easy to raise up his torso, his head lolling backwards like a drunken man. After that, it seemed to be the easiest and simplest thing in the world to lift and pull him onto her back, then straighten up to adjust her load, to adjust her breathing for what was to come next, to make sure that she was holding on to both his arms. His feet dragged on the floor so she was still slightly bent over, but there was hardly any weight there to cause her discomfort.

As she made her way towards the steps, half dragging him behind her, his legs catching in her skirts, she could feel the mask, rubbing against her hair, her neck. She had never wished for him to breathe as much as she did then; it would have made the disconcerting effect of carrying an oversized bolster around much more easy to accept. She also wished he would not be quite so cold. It sent chills through her.

They made the stairs with surprising ease, although his feet kept banging against the steps, and reaching the bedroom she lowered him non-too-gently onto the bed, practically falling on top of him as she nearly overbalanced after tipping him off her back. She tucked her hair behind her eyes, as she viewed his comatose form. His eyes were still shut.

Now_ what should I do?_

On impulse, she felt his forehead again. It was even colder, if that was possible. Frost was forming even on the mask.

_What to do?_

She did the only thing she could think of; she pulled the tapestry off the wall, tugged down the dark hangings above the bed, she found the black velvet robe she had put on when she first woke up; she piled them all on him, layer after layer, and as a finishing touch pulled the velvet coverlet up to his chin. Perhaps that would keep him warm?

She spat at her own foolishness, but what else could she do? In two minds she reached forward to pull the coverlet off again, but the chill of the material made her draw her hand back again.

_Good grief, it's only been on him a few-_

She gasped as she saw the coverlet splinter and burst into fragments, like ice did when broken on the surface of ponds. The items beneath them were already lying in pieces on Erik's motionless form.

_Frozen. Just like that, they froze! But Erik wasn't _that _cold, was he? When I touched him…_

Carefully she pulled the pieces of icy cloth off Erik's body, letting them fall to the floor. She made sure not to actually touch him. If he could destroy the garments so easily, she didn't like to think what he'd do to her flesh.

_If I can't keep him warm this way, what _can_ I do?_

She knelt down beside the bed, avoiding the frosty remains of the erstwhile covering she had provided, her head down on a level with Erik's own, turned towards her as it was. She rested her arms on the edge, careful not to move too close to him, and she rested her chin on her arms. She opened her mouth, unsure of what to say, but her voice worked.

"Erik? I don't know if you can hear me…but I will try nonetheless. I…don't know what else to do. I've gotten you here. I tried to keep you warm, but somehow I don't think what I did was enough." She cast a wry glance at the fragments beside her knees. "I don't think I should sing. That wouldn't work. Not here. Not now." She struggled for what to say next. "So…perhaps…perhaps I should…tell you a story. To help you to wake, instead of helping you to sleep."

And, much to her surprise, she did.

She spoke of the beginning of the world, according to Nordic legend – of the icy realm of Niflheim and the fiery realm of Muspell, and how when the two met they formed the first giant Ymir, from whom all other giants came. She spoke of Audhumla, the great cow and the second being to come into existence, who licked the salty ice around her for nourishment and uncovered Buri, the forefather of all the gods. She spoke of how Odin, Vili and Ve, sons of Buri's son Bor, finally killed the cruel Ymir, and used his body to create the world; his bones for mountains, his blood for the oceans, his hair for the trees and his skull for the heavens. She spoke of how the brothers created humans from two pieces of wood they found on the sea shore, creating the man Ask from an ash log and the woman Embla from an elm bough.

Then, since there was no opposition to her words, she found herself carrying on, repeating the age old tales told to her at bed time by a Swedish father, despite the misgivings of a French mother, who would have preferred ordinary fairy tales for a growing girl.

She spoke of the noble gods of Asgard, naming each in the distinctive way her father's tongue had shaped the title. She spoke of their foes, the brutal, savage frost giants, who brought ice and night to the world. She spoke of the Vanir, the shining, beautiful race of higher beings, born out of the upper air. Looking into Erik's face all the while, never taking her eyes off his masked visage, she spoke with no fear of retribution of Hel, the daughter of Loki, the god of mischief and cunning, half beautiful and half decayed; who ruled over the underworld and feasted on hunger and thrived on sickness. She spoke of dwarfs and elves and trolls, and the men who had lived among them, and the heroes who had battled them and won the right to feast with the gods.

When she ran out of her father's legends, she looked again at the one in the bed, and saw that he still did not wake; and she slowly began to bite the back of her hand, thinking all the while.

_Should I?…_

At length she rose, and walked around to the other side of the bed, and clambered up onto the sumptuous mattress, struggling a little, like a child trying to enter a parent's bed. She wriggled closer to Erik.

_Should I?_

But she only hesitated for a breath before reaching out, her fingers ready for the slightest chill, the slightest hint of pain. But her fingertips touched his neck, and there was nothing, except the chill that she had felt before. Not burning, not scorching cold – just chill.

So she moved closer, closer, and gathered him into her arms, and pulled him close into her embrace so that her chin rested on his shoulder, and his chin on hers, their bodies entwined though not quite enveloping each other. She held him tight to her, trying to give him some of her warmth, some of her life.

_Erik. Don't you _dare_ leave me alone._

She spoke again, to help her mind ignore the cold that was gradually seeping through her from the cold, motionless thing in her arms, of a young man from the cold north who was captivated by a young woman in the capital of France, and took her back with him to Sweden to be his wife. She spoke of the loss of the wife, so long ago that there was barely more than a memory of loveliness lost for her only daughter. She spoke of the clear blue skies and clear cold lochs of Sweden, soon lost when the father obeyed the mother's wish and brought the girl back to France, to her second homeland, leaving her first behind. She felt her voice choke as she spoke of her home, that was lost to her, as, it seemed, was everything above the earth.

_God help me._

She spoke, forcing herself not to stutter, of the sickness of the father, of the swift decline, of the deathbed, where he had spoken his last words, told her a great secret. She sang softly the melody her father had whispered before he had fallen into his final, greatest sleep.

"_Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory! Angel of Music, hide no longer, secret and strange angel!"_

_Do you hear me, Erik?_

"Erik!" she said softly. "Do you hear me? I said that before my father died, he told me that one day I would meet the Angel of Music. He told me that the angel would be both great and terrible, and my life would never be the same after I met him. He told me he would bring music back into my life. Do you hear me, Erik? Erik?"

She loosened her grip on him slightly, so that his head fell back. His face was almost serene now in his misery. His tears were still upon his dark eyelashes.

"Erik, you are my Angel of Music. Perhaps I hate to admit it, but there is nothing I can do about that. So wake up and _be _my Angel of Music, do you _hear?"_

Suddenly Erik jerked violently. She could not help gasping – she hadn't expected it to actually have an effect – but at the same time she focused herself on what his abrupt sobs, as he wept into her shoulder again.

"Mama," she heard him whisper, muffled by her flesh. "Mama."

He was delirious. It was like a fever. _If I manage to get him to be sensible, perhaps it will be over._

"No," she said, as firmly as she could, while she pulled back slightly so that he could see her face. "No, it's not your mother, Erik. It's me. It's Christine."

"Mama," he whispered again.

"Christine," she insisted.

He murmured something she had to struggle to make out. "Christine."

"Oh, Erik!" On an impulse she hugged him to her again. He recognized her. He was sensible. He was going to be all right.

"Christine…" Slowly, he raised his head from her shoulder, and she saw that though his yellow eyes were swimming with tears, they saw her and were aware of her. "Christine?" he asked, softly slipping his arm around her waist and drawing her even closer to him.

"Yes, Erik?"

"I _will_ be your Angel of Music – but only if you are mine in return."

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You're probably all either squeeing or screaming in rage, so I'll just take a moment to acknowledge all those people.**

**To those who are squeeing, You're welcome.**

**To those who are screaming, _Why?_**

**Is it perhaps because you are thinking that there's no way in hell that Christine would be able to lift Erik, who is much taller than her, and drag him up the stairs? Are you screaming at the physics of it, that Erik can nitrogen freeze the stuff on top of him but leave his clothes and Christine (and her clothes) untouched? Or are you just enraged at the way Erik would take advantage of Christine like that?**

**To answer those questions, I give these answers. I plead the theory in some circles that when we die, we all lose twenty one grammes (some report it to be the soul, but there is no definite explanation) so that means that however strong he is, our boy's still much lighter; concerning the freezing I remind you that this is my story, and I say Erik can freeze what he wants, even if he isn't aware of it; and as to the last one…**

**This is _Erik _we're talking about. Would you really expect him to do anything else?**

**Those who've read previous chapters in this story will by now know who Hel is, but Erik doesn't know that, does he? Christine must have had an interesting childhood, judging by what her father used to get her to sleep at night. Oh well, at least the Norse gods weren't like the Greek pantheon, always committing incest and bestiality. I would imagine all the women in those legends would develop some strange phobias.**

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Now that this chapter is over, you can skip straight through to the next one without having to wait! Enjoy!**

**And also give me some reviews.**

**Would you expect a half-Irish seamstress to do anything else, either?**


	37. Strange Sights

**Disclaimer: Like I said in the last chapter, I don't own any of it. Not even what's comign up now.**

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This is the second chapter of the double update bonanza. I've said all I want to concerning actually getting it updated, so never mind. Only to say, I apologise if anyone doesn't like the content. I don't think it's _that _bad, but some people might think otherwise. So, enjoy! We're back up top! **

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'**And now,' said he, 'to settle what remains. Will you be wise? Will you be guided? Will you suffer me to take this glass in my hand, and to go forth from your hoiuse without further parley? Or has the greed of curiousity too much command of you? Think before you answer, for it shall be done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you were before, and neither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of riches of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan.'**

**The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde – Robert Louis Stevenson**

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**Strange Sights**

_What do I do? Oh God, what do I do?_

Raoul shoved his way through the crowds, ignoring the angry looks he was given, and the mutters about rudeness. He didn't know what he wanted now – air, or help, or a confessor.

_I must be going mad. Certainly I'm going mad-_

In his frenzy, he rammed straight into a figure all in black. He made at once to dart around it, but he felt his arm seized by a vice like grip.

"Let me go!" he shouted, striking out at whoever was holding him back. "Let me _go!_ Let me be!"

"No, Monsieur Vicomte, I think not. I think you and I need to have a little discussion. _Right now."_

And with that, his captor pulled him sharply into, away from, the crowd; out through some door, and into yet another echoing hall. He was almost slammed into a wall, while he stared up at the dark clad one who apparently towered over him.

Then the man removed his mask. He stared at him, trying to make a connection in his storming mind.

"Pastor Defarge?"

"And good evening to you, Monsieur Raoul," the man of God said, lowering the black mask that had concealed his true presence until now. "And now, perhaps, you would explain to me what is going on?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Defarge sighed gently. "You sent one of the grounds men to ask me about Mademoiselle Daaé, Vicomte. Why should you do that, unless something was wrong? Unless she hadn't returned? Tell me the truth, Vicomte. Is that young lady out there really the Mademoiselle?"

In the turmoil that plagued him, and the prisons that had formed in his mind, it felt somehow good to Raoul to tell the truth, for once. "No," he whispered, lowering his eyes.

The pastor nodded. "I suspected as much. Do not fear, her disguise is really rather good. I doubt I would have suspected it myself, if I had not had that inquiry earlier today. So, where is Mademoiselle Daaé?"

Raoul looked up at the man, from the depths of his misery. He had wished for a confessor, and he had received one. This was his chance. He had to know. He _had_ to know.

"Pastor," and with that he grasped Defarge's arm in his turn. "Please, you must tell me, I must know…can the living marry the dead?"

He at once knew that he was on a winning scent, and hope flowered with his cold dead heart as Defarge looked at him sharply before whispering, "Not here. Somewhere quieter."

_I will find you again, Christine. I swear to it._

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We seem to make a habit of barricading ourselves into rooms, he thought, as he surveyed the group of conspirators gathered upon the chairs in his bedroom, with the Pastor at the moment seated upon his bed. He himself couldn't sit, he wanted to pace; but he held himself as still as he could. He __had _to stay calm now. This was the breaking point; the instant between the finish of his tale and any possible out burst. he thought, as he surveyed the group of conspirators gathered upon the chairs in his bedroom, with the Pastor at the moment seated upon his bed. He himself couldn't sit, he wanted to pace; but he held himself as still as he could. He to stay calm now. This was the breaking point; the instant between the finish of his tale and any possible out burst. 

Fortunately, it was Defarge who broke the silence first. "Are you sure of what you saw, Raoul?"

"As certain as I see you now!" But even as he spoke, he felt doubt. Could he be certain of what he had seen?

_I know that Christine needs help. I know she is being held against her will. And _that _is what is most important now._

"Raoul," he heard Meg begin gently, "Are you _certain? _I mean, really…this is…well…"

"You think I'm mad, don't you?" he spat at her, wishing she was a man so that he could hit her without retribution. _How dare she! _But at once he was horrified at his savage thoughts – what had happened to him in the last day? – and so he forced himself to speak more quietly. "I'm simply telling you what I saw, Meg. I saw Christine disappear in the arms of another man, and before they vanished I saw the man hold up his hand, and her engagement ring was on his fourth finger. That was what I saw. I _know _that was what I saw."

_That's the truth, so Heaven help me._

"And you are thinking that he was dead?" Carlotta asked, with some confusion. The young Spaniard had seemed slightly dazed ever since she had been dragged from the dance floor by a frantic Meg, and even the news of Christine's reappearance and subsequent disappearance was not quite enough to fully wake her up. "What brought on this thought?"

"It is not…a thought. It is a feeling. I looked at him, and somehow I _knew _he was dead. Knew as you know when you look at a tree that it is alive. I tell you, Meg, Carlotta, Cecile, Pastor, I tell you all, that man was _not_ living when he raised that ring to show me, even before I saw that it was skeletal."

"And I believe you, Raoul," Defarge said, as he stood up swiftly.

"You…you do?" He had not been expecting this, least of all from a man of God.

"Is there any reason I should not? Either you are lying, or you are mad, or you are telling the truth. We all know that, until fairly recently and for a good purpose, you do not tell lies, and I can see that you are not delusional. Therefore, we must assume that you are telling the truth."

"But…but Pastor, you can't believe this sort of thing, can you?" Meg asked, looking anxiously at the man of the cloth now, as if suspecting _him _of harboring delusions as well. "To think that Christine-"

"I don't think! I _know!" _

"-is married to a corpse," she went on, regardless of his outburst. "That's preposterous! That's…that's…"

"That's the truth," he repeated, stubbornly.

"No doubt. I have seen stragner sights than that. But I know one way that it can be proved." Defarge put his hand to his chin, and appeared to be thinking. "Yes, it must be done, I can see that."

Cecile, sitting stiffly on her chair, hardly allowing any part of her to touch the piece of furniture, asked tentatively, "Pastor?" But Defarge ignored her, as he turned his dark eyes upon Raoul.

"Vicomte, I wonder if you might have some chalk in your possession?"

"What?" Once again, Raoul felt exceptionally confused at what was going on around him. Why were they talking of chalk, for goodness' sake?

"I would guess not. Never mind. Do you have a razor, then?"

"A…razor? Certainly, but-"

"Would you fetch it, please? Much thanks." The pastor turned away. He apparently had no choice but to go into his bathroom and bring out his razor; only when he got there he found himself bending over his sink instead, and breathing hard.

But he couldn't start being sick now. Not now. Not when it seemed there was some hope for _her,_ for them.

So he breathed deeply until he felt calmer, and then he picked up his razor, very carefully, and silently made his way back into his bedroom. He was more than a little surprised to find Defarge now sitting on the floor, having moved the carpet out of the way, surrounded by the pieces of the candles he kept for his room just in case the lamp ran out of oil in the night. It appeared that the pastor had cut the three candles into roughly twelve equal pieces – with his letter opener. _Where did he get that?_

"Ah. You have it. Good," Defarge said, without looking up as he cut the last large piece in half. "Now, Mademoiselles Giry, Jammes, would you please help me arrange the candles in a circle around me? Thank you. And Mademoiselle Signorelli, I believe there is a box of matches in the drawer where I found the candles. Bring it to me, please."

Then there was silence in the room for a while, save of the rustling of skirts as the girls made their way around the pastor, bending down and making sure every candle was part of the perfect circle, save for one that he prevented them from placing at first. At this point, he looked up at the Vicomte and Carlotta, who held the razor and the match box respectively, and sighed.

"And now, the critical moment, my friends; and the critical question. Do you wish to stay and witness what is to come, or would you prefer to leave and have no further knowledge of this method of mine? I must warn you, think carefully, for you may not like what you see."

_This is all like a dream, _Raoul thought, probably not for the first time, and not for the last either. "If this will help Christine," he said softly, "then I know I should watch, no matter what you do." And he sat down on his bed, without any intention of moving. There were murmurs of similar assent from Meg and Carlotta, who seated themselves respectively as well. Cecile looked as if she might say something, but apparently decided against it, and moved to stand behind Carlotta's chair.

Defarge sighed. "So be it." He held out his hands. "Give me the razor and the matches then, and I will begin."

Carlotta accordingly slid the box across the floor to him from where she was sitting, and Raoul leant forward to hand him the razor. However, he could not stop himself from asking the obvious question.

"What do you want it for?"

Defarge smiled softly as he placed the blade carefully by his side, and striking a match began to light the candles around him; but he didn't answer. He lit all the candles, going through three matches, until he came to the one that had not been placed in the circle yet. Lifting it up, he applied the last match to that one as well, then looked up at them all as he shook the tiny flame out.

"There is something I must make very clear to you, concerning how this works. When I place the candle down, the circle must _not _be broken, until I break it myself. Do you all understand?"

Raoul nodded, as the others replied in the affirmative, but he could not begin to feel unease. What game was this man of God playing? Suddenly, finding out about Christine from his source did not seem such a good idea.

"I mean what I say," the mean went on, now looking directly at him. "If you try to break the circle, I do not know what will happen, but I am certain that it will not be good. _Do you understand?"_

He couldn't find it in him to speak. He nodded dumbly.

"Good." The pastor placed the lit candle in the circle, and at once something changed in the room. There was a new tension in the air; if felt as if it could be cut, carved, sliced with the very razor. Raoul could see the girls across the pastor in his circle, looking slightly alarmed.

Defarge took a few deep breaths, and then settled into a gentle breathing system. With his legs crossed and his arms positioned as such on his legs, and his calm expression, he almost looked like a picture of a Buddha Raoul had once seen, albeit in Western masque clothes. The air of tension in the room did not exactly subside, but it relaxed slightly.

But then Defarge picked up the razor. Raoul barely had time to speak before the pastor positioned it over the heel of his palm and, with an apparently practiced hand, slashed downwards with the blade.

"_What the-" _he gasped, but he could do no more, rooted to the spot in astonishment.

"Pastor!" Meg squealed, leaping forwards; but the clatter of the razor on the floor and the force of Defarge's up-raised, blood-stained right hand halted her in mid-crawl across the floor.

"_Don't_…break the circle," he said slowly and evenly, as if used to the pain now in his left hand, out of which wonderfully red blood was already brimming. Without lowering his other hand, he turned his wrist over to face the floor, and let the blood well and drip and fall onto the bare boards. Then there was no sound in the room for a few heartbeats but the _spi-splat, spi-splat _of the blood droplets falling and landing and splashing into the rapidly widening red puddle in front of Defarge.

At length the man withdrew his hand with a sigh, just as Raoul found it in him to speak. _"What on _earth_ are you doing?"_

Defarge sighed again, as he examined his injured wrist. "A price must always be paid. You cannot get something for nothing anywhere. They need blood to stay in this world, even the best of them, if only for a little while."

"Who? Defarge, what are you-" But Raoul broke off, staring at Defarge's wrist. _Dear God! _Even as he watched in horrified disbelief, the wound in the flesh ceased to bleed, and before the onlookers' eyes closed up like a woman closing up a seam in fabric, the flesh knitting together and all hints of the cut vanishing, as if there had never been a wound in the first place.

"_Mi Maria!" _Carlotta hissed, as she no doubt scrabbled for her rosary. There was a choking whimper from Cecile. Meg was now completely silent.

Defarge breathed deeply, and then extended both his hands over the pool of his own blood, even now soaking into the floor-boards. "Hear me," Raoul could hear him mutter. "I call upon you again, in the name of the Living God and of the True One. I give you this gift of my red blood to supplement you. Rise and answer my questions!" he barked, and now in the soft candlelight the pastor looked anything but soft; he looked wild, and fierce, and almost un-human, a devil as he gestured in mid-air. Raoul, cowering back on the bed, could only think _What have we done? What is he waking up?_

But then the terrible moment was over. Something else had happened, but he could not tell what. At any rate, Defarge looked much happier, as he lowered his hands, his eyes fixed on something beyond the sight of the young people. Raoul could hear Carlotta muttering, over and over again, _"Santa Maria madre de dio santa Maria madre de dio santa Maria madre de dio-"_

"I welcome thee, and am pleased that you have come again to advise me once more," Defarge cut in over her mutterings, and Cecile's dry sobs. "I allow you to make yourself seen, and ask you to make yourself known to us."

There was a movement in the air in front of him, and then – impossibly – a voice spoke out of nothing; a deep resonant voice, that could not in anyway be Defarge's, but someone or something else's entirely.

"You know who I am!...I am the Persian!"

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Well, this is the second part of the surprise – my very first cliff-hanger ending! Or at least, the first ending I acknowledge as a cliff-hanger. _Sweet._ **

Why yes, I DID pinch Defarge's speech form _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. _I just love the Professor's logic!

**Poor Raoul, I am making him look a bit silly, aren't I? But I really do think it's what anyone else would be like in the circumstances. Forget being all brave and wanting to kick some zombie butt, by now even he's wondering about what he's seen. Plus he's just seen a priest summon a spirit with his own blood. Before you ask, no, Defarge is _not _a necromancer. Neither is he a devil worshipper. He just happens to know more than he appears to at first. But then again, don't we all?**

**Carlotta is saying the _Hail Mary _in Spanish, something that is part of Catholics' prayer using the rosary. In English it's 'Holy Mary Mother of God'. Ordinarily there's a _lot_ more than just that, but our little girl's panicked, so she just keeps repeating that over and over. I apologize to any Spanish speakers if this isn't right; I was sure whether to put 'sancta' or 'santa' for 'holy', so in the end I plumped for the latter.**

**A bit of history for anyone wondering about the matches and whether it's historically correct to use them in this; the first ones came out in the 1820s, and 'safety matches' were being issued by the 1840s, since the previous ones had a nasty tendency to burst into flames in your pocket. That didn't stop the girls who made the matches being poisoned by the phosphorus and getting a horrid bone disease called 'phossy-jaw'. Makes you less keen to light the candles tonight, eh?**

**And finally, I'll bet a whole lot of you are screaming 'What the _heck _is Defarge doing cutting his wrist? Does he _want _to bleed to death or something?' The answer is quite simply, no he doesn't. He's not stupid, he's done this before, and he knows where to cut. He didn't cut across the actual wrist, which is where basically everyone cuts when they're slitting their wrists, but at the bottom of the palm where there's less blood pressure. This also explains why, when he used the razor, his blood didn't squirt out in a lovely sanguine display and hit Meg in the face.**

**The thought of what it would be like if this story had a gag reel is not a very pleasant one.**

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Well, that is enough for now. Boy, I'm tired. But satisfied. _You_ can add to that satisfaction. Give the nice half-Irish seamstress some reviews! **


	38. Let the circle be unbroken

**Disclaimer: Of courseI don't own it, so n-yaah. Hey, wait a minute...**

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My apologies, you lot. A2 work is far harder than I anticipated, more in reorganizing my schedule than anything else. Also I've been working hard on another fan-fiction project, and hoping I do well in it. Fingers crossed!**

**In the meantime, here's another 'up-top' chapter. At last, relief to the cliff-hanger I so cruelly left you hanging by the skin of your teeth to. (Imagine if you could actually _peel _teeth…)**

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"**Why is he your enemy?" asked Arabella.**

"**I have not the least idea."**

"**Do you owe him money, perhaps?" asked Ar. Redmond.**

"**I do not _think _so."**

"**He could be a banker. It looks a little like a counting house," suggested Arabella.**

**Strange began to laugh. "Well, Henry, you can cease frowning at me. If I am a magician, I am a very indifferent one. Other adepts summon up fairy-spirits and long dead kings. I appear to have conjured the spirit of a banker."**

**Jonathon Strange & Mr. Norrell _by _Susanna Clarke**

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Let the circle be unbroken

Carlotta clutched her rosary, stolidly counting out the beads and muttering her prayers under her breath, trying not to look at whatever was going on inside that circle. If she didn't look at it, she didn't have to acknowledge it; if she concentrated only on her prayers she didn't have to hear it.

_Holy mother of God, protect me. Holy mother of God, defend me from evil. Holy mother of-_

But no matter how hard she tried, she could not ignore that sound of Raoul's voice as he spoke, the strain in his words showing that he obviously shared her horror. "Defarge…what _is _this?"

"This, Vicomte, is a fairly old friend of mine. He has aided me in many matters, and I believe that he can help us now."

"If I am able to help," the disembodied, harrowing voice added, "then believe that I shall try to, sir, in whatever shape or form I can."

Cecile's muffled squeal made her look up against her will, and she had to make use of all her self-reserve and pride not to mimic the maid; though, since there now seemed to be a severed head hanging in midair in front of Defarge, she would have had a very good excuse to do so.

_Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee…_

On closer inspection though, the man's head was not apparently severed, but appeared rather as if an artist had drawn the shape of his face, his swarthy features, his beard and his neck in great detail, and then simply abandoned the effort before beginning the rest of the body. Now this apparition hovered in front of Defarge like something straight out of a nightmare; like the ghosts in stories that had haunted the nights of her childhood.

But she wasn't a little girl now, frightened by her vicious younger sister. She was strong, and brave, and she had an indomitable faith that this would not cow her.

So she kept her gaze upon the green eyes of the spectre, and did not cringe over her rosary but sat up as straight as ever. Still caressing the beads with her right hand, she reached up with her left to grasp Cecile's behind her where it still rested on the chair back – the sounds of the maid's own dry terror had been getting to her - and was secretly gratified to feel the other girl's fingers clasp tightly around her wrist, and make an effort to stop shaking.

_Blessed art thou among all women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…_

"That is very reassuring to know," Raoul was saying, "but that still does not explain what – _who, _rather, you are." He sounded embarrassed, even though both versions of the question seemed fair to her. "What kind of witchcraft is this, Defarge?"

"It is no witchcraft, Raoul," Defarge said calmly, sitting back slightly, though not releasing the tension that infused him. "As far as I recall, _you_ do not use witchcraft to keep in touch with distant relations."

"_Relations_?" Meg asked incredulously from her seat on the floor, but to Carlotta it was already perfectly clear. Why else would he remind her so much of her homeland – and the people who had once lived there?

"I see that perhaps it is not the sun that makes your skin so dark after all, Pastor?" she stated smoothly.

"You are correct, mademoiselle." She flinched, though almost imperceptibly she hoped, to be addressed by the head, which had somehow swivelled around to face her; but still she held its gaze coolly. "Darius is my descendant. Together we have reckoned that he is my great grandson."

"Really?" She couldn't _believe_ that Meg sounded so calm. _Why does she sound so _calm? _Why even _interested? "Apart from the skin colour, I truly cannot see much resemblance."

"Two generations apart often means that, mademoiselle. However, I like to think that he takes after my wife."

"Your great _grandson_?" Raoul by now was sounding more than a little lost, and she could not blame him. "How can that be? Defarge is a Christian pastor and you, sir, appear to be nothing of the sort. Who _are_ you? What are you?" He appeared to have forgotten the awkwardness of his earlier version of the same question.

"For one thing, he speaks well for a ghost." The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she worked hard not to cringe as both pastor and his apparent ancestor turned their respective gazes upon her.

"Nadir is not a ghost, mademoiselle."

"He looks like a ghost to me."

"Nevertheless, I am not," the head cut in.

She glared at it. Stupid thing. It was floating, it was disembodied, it had appeared in some sort of magic circle, it was an apparent ancestor; therefore, it was a ghost. "Then what _are _you?" she challenged it.

The head sighed, if it was physically possible for something that presumably had no lungs to sigh. "I see I must tell something of my nature, then."

"Nadir, I don't think we have time for this," Defarge cut in. "You're using up my blood quite quickly as it is."

The head – Nadir – simply turned to look at him. Whatever silently passed between then was enough to make _Defarge_ sigh, in a way that made her think that perhaps the two were not so dissimilar after all, and pick up the razor again. "Very well. But let us keep in mind that I do not have an unlimited supply of blood, shall we?"

"Of course." The head swivelled back to look at her. "Now; when I was alive, I was a faithful follower of Islam. But when I married, I chose a chaste Christian woman to be my wife, as my faith allows; and I loved her so well that I could not bring myself to make her give up her faith in place of mine. Instead, we compromised between our faiths, so that neither of us feared that our mate would spend the rest of eternity burning in the fires of Hell when they died."

"Is that _allowed?" _Cecile muttered from behind her, her fear apparently forgotten.

Nadir chuckled, and the darkness in it made her shiver. "Apparently not, at least judging by the way I met my end. You must understand that I was an important official in my land; to be seen deviating from Islam in any form or manner was an act of treason against the authority of man as well as of God. I had to be removed. So one night assassins crept into my house, and cut my throat from ear to ear."

"Oh." Carlotta could not help her whimper. Unbeliever or not, nobody deserved to die like that – just as she had thought two weeks earlier, with that man with half a face in the story. But this appeared to be real.

"What happened to your wife?" Meg asked quietly.

Nadir sighed again. "For the longest time I did not know. It was only when Darius here summoned me for the first time that I was able to learn of my wife's fate. I knew at least she did not die at the same as I did, otherwise we would have gone down to the Land of the Dead together."

"The Land of the Dead?"

"But she managed to escape, heavily pregnant with my grandmother," Defarge took over, ignoring Raoul's outburst. "She fled to Eastern Europe, and raised her child as a Christian – a potentially sore point with Nadir, but we try not to mention it. I was able to tell him what happened, because he knew I was a descendant of his – this ritual summons the soul of a deceased relative." He smirked, but there was little humour in his smile. "I remember that the first time I attempted it, I thought there had been a mistake, until I went back through the family records."

Carlotta had to admit that he did have a point. As Meg had pointed out, aside from the similar colour of their skin there really was very little to suggest that the two were related at all, let alone the fact that Nadir was, to say the least, exotic looking. But never mind that! If Nadir had come from the Land of the Dead, then he _was_ a ghost! So there! She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly Raoul was sitting forward, his eyes shining now with new excitement rather than trepidation.

"Wait! You said that you reside in the Land of the Dead?"

"Yes-"

"A moment. I must refresh the ritual." She quickly looked away as Defarge cut his wrist again, and did not look back until the pastor had put down the razor again, a sign that the nick he had made was mended. Her blood ran cold at the brutality of it – at the requirement of the blade, and the price of the blood itself. What man of God would condone these actions, let alone perform them? She clutched her holy beads close, as she wished she could clutch her friends so that they might be safe.

_Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our…d-death…_

"Now, Nadir, the pleasantries are over. Can you tell us what we wish to know?"

"Perhaps if you told me what you desired, then I would be able to supply an answer," the spirit stated with perfect simplicity.

Defarge looked for a moment as if he were arguing with himself, and then looked very irritated. "Raoul, then, if you would?" he said shortly, placing his hands on his knees and closing his eyes.

It seemed as if nothing now would hold Raoul back. He slid off the bed and onto his knees and hands, his fingers nearly brushing the edge of the circle as he leaned in towards the spirit, though still remembering to keep his distance.

"Nadir…sir…"

Carlotta found, even in the midst of her mix of intense fear and stern disapproval of the whole proceedings, that Raoul's attitude, his voice, echoed that of Buquet's imitation of when he had been a little boy, begging for stories – but then again, this wasn't an echo, but an actual performance. She watched as he tentatively began to reach out a hand but then apparently thought better of it, and went hastily on. "Please, can you tell me…I have asked Defarge, but he has no answer…can you tell me…"

"Yes?" Nadir asked patiently.

"Can a living person marry a dead one?"

Nadir's lips parted in a gasp that was swallowed but still noticed, as was the widening of his eyes. A new tension came into the room. Raoul's own eyes gleamed in triumph.

"What do you know of such a matter?" Nadir spoke more cautiously than before, staring keenly at the vicomte.

"The woman I love, my fiancée, she has been kidnapped! Abducted by something which wears a human shape, but clearly no longer lives! Her name is-"

"Christine."

To hear that precious, treasured name spoken by something like this was very horrible indeed to Carlotta. It was terrifying.

_Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now…_

But none of the others appeared to feel the dull horror that was even now clawing at her heart, like stomach ache. Both Cecile and Meg muffled their own gasps of surprise, Defarge's eyes shot open again, and Raoul surely would have grabbed hold of Nadir's head and pulled it close to him, had he dared to break the circle – which he didn't. Instead he blurted out, "_How_ do you know that?"

"I have seen her." Again, nobody appeared to be aware of the deep unhappiness Nadir's voice was now laden with; they all now looked overjoyed.

"You've _seen _her?" Meg squealed. "Is she safe? Is she all right?"

"The…last time I saw her, she was reasonably contented. But that was a good deal of time ago, and the place where she is being kept changes constantly."

"Kept?" Raoul's voice was now strained.

"Yes. Kept. I will not lie to you, Raoul; you were correct when you stated that Christine was kidnapped. She was. As far as I know, she was snatched in the night, and dragged beneath the earth."

"Beneath the _earth_?" Cecile whispered, and her hand was so tight upon Carlotta's now the Spanish girl was sure her skin was completely white with the pressure.

"That is where the Land of the Dead lies."

"So she _has _been stolen by something dead." Raoul sat back on his heels, curiously satisfied, knowing he just had been proved right. "Something that holds her in thrall?"

"Sometimes it seems to me as if it is the other way around – but yes, she is somewhat at his mercy."

_His mercy? _she wondered, and Meg seemed to be thinking along the same lines as she asked "And who is it who has trapped her? The corpse Raoul says he saw?"

"I believe-" Nadir's voice suddenly died away, and his form began to blur. Raoul swore loudly with a oath that seemed to shock even Meg, while Defarge hurriedly leaned forward and once more opened his wrist, openly wincing now as his blood splashed onto the boards, sending colour and sound back into the floating head. As he drew back again it apparently took longer for his wrist to heal this time, leaving it a sore and angry red, and he was muttering some distinctly unholy things under his breath.

Nadir continued speaking as if the interruption had not come, although his slightly shaken expression bore testimony to the shock he must have felt. "-you are referring to Erik."

At once the Vicomte's head jerked up from where it had bowed in contemplation of the new gift of blood. "Is _that_ his name? Who is this 'Erik'?"

Nadir groaned, and closed his eyes, as if in pain. "Erik is many, many things. A genius, a dreamer, a tortured soul... But that would mean nothing to you. For now, let us simply say that he is in love with Christine…deeply, passionately…I fear fatally."

"And Christine?" she forced herself to say. "How does she react to all this love? To his proposal?"

But already Raoul was leaning forward again, eager once more, but now for something different – or perhaps just to avoid hearing about how much his rival loved his fiancée. "Then tell me how I may rescue her!"

There was silence. All the living occupants of the room hardly dared to breathe; the head looked seriously at the glowing face of the youth, really just in truth a boy.

"You would go that far?" he asked solemnly.

Raoul exploded into a snarl, making even Nadir's head shy away

"What do you think I should do? Abandon her to rot beneath the earth? Cast her away so she will shrivel into nothingness? Leave her with…_that?_ I would _never _do that! Do you think me so faithless as to back away from this?"

"I was not suggesting this at all," the spirit said smoothly. "I was just wondering that perhaps your passion comes more from the fact that you are enraged at my companion's theft of-"

Cecile squeaked as Raoul slammed his hands down hard upon the floor. She herself heard rather than truly registered her breath coming in a hiss, as she saw the change in Raoul's face. His breath came in hisses as well, as he evidently tried to control himself and his anger.

"That…is…one reason," he managed. "But it is…nothing when I think of…her. I…will be angry later. For now…" He struggled, and won, in managing to make himself calmer. "For now, all I can think of is her. She's trapped. She needs my help. And I will _not _leave her there, do you understand me, Persian?"

Once again, there was silence.

_Pray for us sinners…_

"I understand you, Raoul. But I must warn you, if you seek to pursue this endeavour, then you will assuredly invoke the extreme ire of my companion. A dead man's rage is all the more terrible, for he has nothing to fear anymore, save for that which you would do to him in this case. Are you willing for that?"

Raoul's smile was heartbreaking. "I think I already have his irrevocable hatred, judging by what he has already done, Nadir. Taking Christine back would do nothing to alleviate it, I am certain; so let us not think of it. I think of her, above all else, and I'm willing to risk the world itself to save her. Tell me what I must do."

The very words, and his expression, brought tears to her eyes.

The spirit looked at him a moment longer, and then nodded. "Very well. I will aid you as well as I can."

Raoul nodded in turn, and repeated, softly, his face now making her now wish to unleash the tears that had already come, "Tell me what I must do."

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I know, I _know_. Darius Defarge. It makes me cringe as well, I assure you! It's like Clark Kent, Peter Parker, Lois Lane, Scott Summers. What _was _it with comic books and alliterating names? Thank goodness that went out long ago, along with spandex. Though there's still Fred Flintstone. And Mickey Mouse. And Donald Duck and _oh the horror._**

**Nadir's marriage was actually allowed, even in the rather violent times he lived in – in the Qu'ran, it says that Muslim men can take a Jewish or Christian woman to wife, provided of course that she is morally clean and good, and that she converts to Islam. Muslim women, of course, just get stuck with Muslim men.**

**Yes, Carlotta's doing the rosary again. It's sort of a comfort thing for her. And yay! Show of the heroic Raoul, everybody! Ain't it so sweet? Then again, you lot who don't like him can just say he's thinking 'I'm screwed anyway, might as well go the whole hog and sail to Hell in a hand basket!'**

**Or something like that. **

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Review, you lot! I'm leaving for Mongolia on Tuesday! Let the half-Irish seamstress feel the love!**


	39. By Heart

**_Sainbainu! _Yes, I am _finally_ back from Mongolia! My word, but Mongolia is such a beautiful place; we all had _such _a good time, even though on the horse riding part of the trip some of us got chafed in places I'd rather not talk about. _Ahem. _At least no one fell off their horse, or got sick from drinking the water (even though _quite _a few people got sick as dogs on vodka, which I personally think served them right, especially when they had to clean out the tents that they were sick in the night before by hand) or caught bubonic plague from a marmot. That would just have been humiliating.**

**So, we are under the earth once again. Christine and Erik are still where we left them i.e. snuggling each other. Oh, the possibilities. **

**'She is a sensible** **little thing, and she never wants anything it isn't safe to give her,' he said.**

**Then he went with Sara into her little sitting-room, and they bade each other good-bye. Sara sat on his knee and held the lapels of his coat in her small hands, and looked long and hard at his face.**

'**Are you learning me by heart, little Sara?' he said, stroking her hair.**

'**No,' she answered, 'I know you by heart. You are inside my heart.' And they put their arms around each other, and kissed as if they would never let each other go.**

**A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. **

**By heart**

Christine's little heart beat was fluttering like that of a bird. Given what he thought of her at the moment, he would not be surprised if snow white wings had unfolded from her shoulders, and closed about him. Certainly he was holding an angel, a creature from heaven, tight in his embrace…

_And she suffers me to hold her._

If it were possible for him to adore Christine even more, as he looked into her large brown eyes, on a level with his own, startled but not afraid, it was now.

It was _glorious._ He felt almost as if he were alive again.

He pulled her even closer – gently, oh so gently, he did not wish fear to come into those mesmerising eyes - until the back of her neck was cushioned on the pillows, and he rested at her side, on his side, looking down onto her face as she gazed wide-eyed up at him, his arm still around her waist. It was how he had always dreamed of such a coupling; not embracing his bride as he had his mother, but in a far different way from the night when he had not been a corpse, but had held a dead body in his arms.

And now it was the other way around.

"How do you feel?" she asked, tentatively but clearly unaware of the thoughts that were going on behind his masks of both porcelain and flesh.

"Far better than I did before," came his honest reply. He could not remember feeling as happy as this for a long, long time. All the time Christine had been with him, it could not compare to this…simply holding her in his arms, not restraining her from escape or carrying her unconscious form, but feeling her lie in his embrace with her knowledge and unspoken consent.

"Oh. I…I am glad." His angel ploughed on, after the adorable hesitation that showed so plainly on her face. "What were you thinking about? It must have been terrible, for you to behave in such a way."

The pain in his still heart had been healed by the warmth of her in his arms, and so he hardly cringed internally as he spoke the truth. "My mother. I was relieving in my mind the last time I saw her. How she died in my arms."

She darted a nervous glance around her, no doubt noticing the similarities between the various scenarios, before remembering herself and letting her sympathy show. "I am sorry. I shouldn't have asked-"

"It does not matter." He didn't want her distressed, not now, when they were so comfortable. He let his fingers spread out slowly over her sweet flesh, feeling the warmth of her back through the cloth of her dress.

"Erik?" Her voice halted the progression of his hand at once. Was she annoyed? But no, there was no irritation in her voice, only that potentially fatal curiosity that he had come to know so well by now.

"Yes?" He resigned himself to whatever she would ask. Nothing was too great.

"What happened to you after your mother was taken away?"

_Except perhaps that._

"Christine, my life is not exactly the most savoury of topics-"

"I don't care." Christine's hand came to rest, quite by accident it seemed, against his waistcoat, but it was enough to send a rush of heat and pleasure through him. "Erik, I want to know."

_Tell her, _part of his mind prompted. _Let her be satisfied, let her glut her curiosity._

Tell her? Tell her what he had done, what he had been?

_Her reaction can be no worse than to what you are now._

He slipped his own large hand around hers, as he sighed. "Very well. But be warned; it is possible you will think even less of me after this than you do now."

His beloved made no reply, but he was almost too captivated by the crease of her forehead as she frowned. But already his disgust at _that _name was coming back, making the saliva rise at the back of his mouth.

"After…_they_ took my mother away, theythought that they could buy me off. They thought to take the blood from my mouth by filling it with sickly sweetness instead. It just made it all the more bitter."

"What did they do?"

"Everyone in the village expected that I would be turned out of our house to starve in the streets. They were probablylooking forward to watching me do it. But instead, I was aided by an anonymous patron. I was sent to school in Paris, and then when I was old enough to the School of Fine Arts itself. They gave me an education fit for a prince, I'll give them that. I was always talented, even when I was a peasant in the village, but my skills were honed and polished to perfection. Apparently I was one of the best students the school ever had; many of them said I _was _the best. When I left, I finally found out who my mysterious benefactors were, I found out who it was that had saved me from starvation, had given me another chance for life – if you could call it that."

The pain made him want to choke, as he looked down at her. "Can you imagine it, Christine? Can you imagine knowing that the people, the family, whom you have hated for so long, your loathing festering inside you, never finding an opportunity to be released; the ones who took everything in your world from you…are also the ones to whom you now owe everything anew? Can you imagine it, my angel?"

Her head shook, her curls falling further over his arm. "I can't," she murmured, and he was bourn on the sorrow in her voice like a feather on the breeze. "I truly can't. I hope that I will never know."

"I hope so as well…well, they told me the truth, about who had helped me to survive, who had given me my precious teaching. I was furious beyond measure, but it didn't show, I didn't dare let it. I knew that they were the only hope I had of seeing my mother again, if she wasn't already dead, and if I angered them there was no hope at all. So I behaved. I was gratefulness itself. I thanked them and praised them so much it made me sick to my stomach." His mind burned at the thought of the humiliation he endured."I thought that they would never accept it, that they would be suspicious; but they lapped it all up like stupid pampered cats licking up milk. They never seemed to think that I would hate them for taking her from me. They were surprised when they learned that I wanted to see her – as if I should have _forgotten_ her! But, nevertheless, they took me to see her."

There was silence upon the bed, until he was tired of it and broke it. "You know what happened next."

He felt her nod, even though he wasn't watching her face, for fear it would remind him of _it_, again.

"I think…after that, I went a little mad, for a time. Certainly I ran away, from France, from Europe…and I ended up in Persia."

"_Persia?_ What on earth were you doing there?"

"Supposedly plying my trade as an architect; and at first that was enough for the Shah-in-Shah, the sultan of those parts. But then I made the mistake of helping him to realise that he could use my talents to indulge in his favourite pastimes."

"What do you mean?"

_A wide eyed, silently screaming woman, with blood running down from her temples-_

_A man's face, fixed in an expression of pure terror, his eyes seeming to look beyond him-_

_A little girl, surely no older than five, her eyes squeezed tightly shut; a trickle of blood running down from her nose-_

Faces, long since done to death, calling out to him from the river, as they had always done; as they would always do, even when in his first transport of joy he had brought Christine to his home, and she had been terrified by their shadows. How would she react now?

"Killings, Christine," and he felt her stiffen in his arms, though thankfully she did not pull away. "Both the Shah and his little sultana had a perverse pleasure for watching people die in…" His teeth ground out the word. "…_amusing _ways. Prisoners pulled up from the dungeons, vagrants, sometimes orphans that nobody wanted…the orphans were the worst, little children who'd done nothing, _nothing! _They loved to watch them die. Sometimes I thought it was the only thing which made them aroused enough to couple."

"And you…" came the soft words, that cut into his fevered mind like soft scissors.

"I aided them in their desire." _May I be forgiven by whatever power is left in this world. _"I did my best to make the deaths as painless, as quick as I could. That was how I came to develop the Punjab lasso to my hand. It is often used in the Far East; weighted, so that when it slips around the neck and pulls tight, the neck breaks very quickly." He snapped his fingers, more for effect than anything else. _Childish, really._ "I thought, or rather hoped, that would soon be the end of it, that they would tire of such executions, set me to designing the palace the Shah wanted once again. But they brought out more targets for me! For practice, they said!" His arm tightened around Christine's waist, and might have further had she not gasped, making him berate himself for his clumsiness. "And when…when I tried to get out of it, I offered to show the little sultana how to use the lasso, and she agreed, and I heard later on she used it to kill at least a dozen of her ladies in waiting, maybe more! I did that, Christine. All of those people; they died because of me, and quite often at my hands."

Not even the feel of both her hands upon his chest, sending more warmth through him, could stop him now. This was a plea for help, which had been squashed for eons. "But even _then_ it wasn't over! The Shah latched onto the idea of a chamber of mirrors that I'd designed for his wretched palace, and he made me modify it into a torture chamber. Despite all I could do, I had to watch as wretch after poor wretch perished in there, either from the heat that came from the walls or from the noose that the Shah's sadistic little wench so very thoughtfully hung from the ceiling. All my talent, all my skill, and all those two wanted was to watch me snapping people's necks or cooking them alive, or driving them to take their own lives. They were monsters. I hated them!"

"Then why didn't you leave?" his angel asked, intruding into his rant. He did his best to calm himself, as he thought of how to phrase his answer.

"I longed to. But where could I go, with what I was, what I had become? I had no home to speak of. I had always been set apart by _this,_" and here his right hand came up to touch the chill of the mask, and gesture to what lay beneath it, "and how I had been treated because of it when I was a child, but now I lived with the knowledge that I was a murderer several times over as well. And the first death I had caused made me as much a monster as those two in the first place. For a long time, I slid into apathy. It seemed there was no way out."

"But you escaped," Christine persisted.

"I did, eventually." Feelings of pride began to glow in him again, though he was careful not to look at her face. "Something snapped inside me. I destroyed everything I'd made in that dreadful country before I took my leave; I smashed that accursed chamber, and I set fire to the palace I'd designed." Only now did he look at her face, and quickly went on, "There was no one in it. It was only half finished. But if the Shah and the Sultana _had _been inside, I confess it would not have weighed too heavily upon my conscience."

There was silence again, before her beloved voice asked once more, "And what happened then?"

"I forget." The pointed briefness in his voice was too harsh, and so with some effort a smile rose to his lips. "Why all these questions, my angel? Does it please you to know that I truly am a monster? That the hands that hold you are those of a foul killer?"

Despite the bitterness of the words, the sadness that welled within him once more escaped without control. _Why did I speak? Now she will hate me even more._

_Fool. _

But she looked up, not away from him, and he was once more enthralled by her chocolate gaze as she watched him with all seriousness.

"I look at your hands," she said softly, "and I see not the hands of a murderer. I see the hands of an artist. A genius. A man wronged by the world, by life. I see hands that sought not to kill, but only to release others from the suffering that wicked people condemned them to. You are not a monster, Erik, no matter what you may say or think about yourself. A monster would not show such grief at what he had done."

He had thought his love for her could no longer be exceeded. But he had been so, so wrong.

"Now that you have reminded me, have I thanked you at all for recalling me from the catatonic state I was in?"

At once her lovely eyes were no longer serious but wide with surprise. "What? What do you mean?" Her hands flexed unconsciously, the feeling of her fingers moving against him was delightful beyond measure.

"I was taught as a child that it is very rude not to give thanks for a service rendered." He leant forward, over, and as he did so he was not sure whether her little hands attempted to push him away or to pull him closer. Christine's eyes were fever bright, and her sweet lips were so close-

"_Erik!"_

He froze, several very bad words circulating through his head, drowning out Nadir's disembodied voice. He stared down at Christine, his face only inches from hers, and she stared up at him, her hands entwined in his waistcoat, both of them motionless, like two bizarre statues.

"_Erik!" _Nadir sounded rather desperate now.

_Of all the times…_

He pulled away from her, too quickly, pulling his left arm out of its socket; only very swift action on his part saved Christine from being left lying on a dismembered body part.

_Nadir, _he thought savagely, as he stamped out of the bedroom, not daring to look back at his angel, holding his arm at the shoulder and manipulating it back into place, _this had _better _be worthwhile._

He reached the nearest mirror, and gave its surface a quick flick with his hand. "Nadir? I am here. Speak."

Nadir's face at once swam into sight. "Erik? Why didn't you answer at once?"

"I had better things to do. Make this quick, Daroga."

"Erik, I want you to come here. Now."

The abruptness of Nadir's command made him blink. _What?..._

"What _are _you waffling on about, Nadir?"

"I want you," Nadir repeated, blandly, his dark face irritatingly calm, "to come here. To the Necropolis. There is something I have to tell you."

"Could this not wait-"

"_No." _Nadir's voice was unnaturally cold, even for the irritating manner he had taken on in the last while. "It can't. I shall be waiting, Erik." His face faded before he had a chance to say anymore.

He stared at the mirror, half in a mind to summon up Nadir again in his home and demand an explanation, before dismissing it with a sigh. Nadir could be such a mysterious little fart when he wanted to be.

"Will you go?"

He turned to see Christine standing at the top of the stairs, her curls only mildly ruffled, her head on one side and watching him with unblinking eyes. _Dammit. Why did she have to be watching?_

"It doesn't seem as if I have much choice, do I?" he retorted, looking to somewhere other than her gaze and rubbing his shoulder. Replacing his arm had felt unnaturally uncomfortable, and still did so.

"Then may I come with you?"

"Why?"

"Do I _need_ a reason? I wish to see Ayesha again. Is that reason enough for you?"

Unexplainably, Christine was more appealing than ever when she was annoyed, at least to him. This weakness he had for he was inconvenient at times.

_Only at times, though._

Nadir drew back from the mirror in his library.

_There. Soon it will begin and end. _

He hated himself for doing this, but what choice did he have? _This must be done._

_Forgive me. I did not mean to betray you. But it was the _only _thing that could be done._

**A little more from Susan Kay and Leroux canon combined, because after all, who doesn't love hearing about all the things they get up to in Persia? Blood and guts and stuff galore. Susan Kay is a GENIUS.**

**Oh yeah, and Leroux's good too.**

**Told you there'd be snuggling. And also arm-losing. That bit was from the film. Emily's a sweet lass, but really, bits dropping off all the time is not the best way to attract a husband. **

**I'll get the next chapter up as soon as I can – it's inspired by one of my favourite parts of the film!**

**Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**

**(Also sorry for the slightly chaotic layout - I couldn't get my line thing to work. Just imagine a little line thing seperating Nadir's angsting from the stuff in the lair, how's about that?)**


	40. The storm builds

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom, Corpse Bride, or any bits of mythology used therein this chapter.**

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**This chapter is quite short, I think, but it is important. Because from here on it's not nearly so lovey dovey, and much more traumatic – if you can take it, after all the angst.**

**So, read, and enjoy.**

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**It is almost impossible for us to comprehend the state of mind of the captor and the captive in these Aztec campaigns. The captive had a resigned and fatalistic attitude towards what awaited him that was even more marked, if that is conceivable, than the fatalism of the modern Mexican Indian when confronting the prospect of death. Sahagún records that: 'When a man took a prisoner, he said: "Here is my well-beloved son"; and the captive said: "Here is my revered father."' It was all formal and predestined.**

**Cortes and the downfall of the Aztec Empire, _by _Jon Manchip White**

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**The storm builds**

Ayesha fed Fatima another crumb of cake, but Fatima wasn't hungry. Fatima had become rather lonely since Erik had left, which always happened after one of his visits, but Fatima and she missed the lovely lady as well, who had had such a lovely voice, and was so kind, and who read such beautiful stories. She wished she could see the lovely lady again; but Erik hadn't said when they would come back.

"Ayesha!"

At once she forgot her wistfulness – Nadir was calling her! Quickly she leapt up and ran from her room, trailing Fatima behind her. Nadir was in the study, as he often was recently, which had made her sad because he didn't play with her, but maybe he would play with her now! He smiled down at her, but somehow his smile seemed odd, wrong, weak, like the watered down tea he sometimes let her drink.

"Ayesha, dear, I've just spoken to Erik. He'll be coming to talk about something very important, so I need you not to disturb us, please."

All the joy was gone at once. Not disturb them? When she wanted to see Erik again so badly? She could not help moaning, "Oh, but-"

"No 'buts', I am afraid," Nadir said, kneeling down, as he often did, so he did not tower over her. "But-" he checked at this, chuckled, and allowed Ayesha to ceremoniously hit him on the nose for being so silly, before going on. "You remember Christine?"

_The lovely lady!_ Ayesha nodded frantically, until Nadir put a finger to her chin to get her to stop.

"Erik may well be bringing her as well; so you two can play together while we talk. Is that fair?"

Ayesha nodded again, making her plaits shake. She would see Erik! She would play with the lovely lady! Everything was all right again.

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It seemed only a little while until Erik had steered the boat into the harbour that they had docked at before, and helped her out, and then only a little while more until they came to the white washed house with the quietly ornate door, after walking along various streets, like any ordinary couple on a trip out. Erik said little or nothing as he walked stolidly along at her side, but Christine found she didn't really care – it was pleasing to simply be in his presence without speaking, and it was unearthly at the same time. She didn't know whether it was more comforting or frightening. At least she was glad that her arm was linked into his whole one – the feel of bone was still slightly odious to her, though the horror had certainly decreased in time.

In some ways it was a relief when the door opened, and Nadir's relatively reassuring face appeared.

"Thank Allah you are here."

"You should thank Christine that I had the patience to come, Nadir," Erik cut in brusquely. "Now, suppose that you tell us what your new grievance is."

"I will tell _you_, Erik," Nadir said coolly, as he bowed them in. "I highly doubt Mademoiselle Daaé will wish to hear what you will undoubtedly have to say in reply. Come, into the study with you." He made as if to take Erik's arm, but was brushed off as Erik turned to stare at her with his golden eyes, his lips pressed together, one eyebrow raised as if in inquiry.

_Is he still so suspicious?_

"I'm not going to run away while you talk, Erik," she retorted, as good naturedly as she could manage. "I'll be waiting right here when you get back, I promise you."

Erik nodded, allowing a small smile to creep onto his face, even as Nadir bundled him into the book lined study and shut the door behind them with a very definite sound, cutting off all possible noise from inside the room.

_What am I going to do now? _she wondered, as she looked around the beautiful, echoing marble entrance hall, her hands pulling at the material of her dress. _They may be a good while. I wished to see Ayesha, but where…?_

As if in answer she felt a tug on her skirts, and looked around and down into a familiar little face, peeping up at her.

"Nadir said I could play with you while they talked!"

Christine irresistibly smiled. Ayesha was just _too_ sweet! She looked prettier than ever, in a new tunic and trousers of turquoise silk, and with her throat obscured by a lovingly embroidered silk scarf, and her hair plaited with according green ribbons. Sinking to one knee so as to be on level with the adorable child, she said sincerely, "I would love to play with you. What did you have in mind?"

Ayesha's dark brown eyes gleamed. "Chase!" And at once she darted away, her little feet tapping on the marble floor, leaving Christine to leap to her own feet and run after her in a rustle of skirts and girlish giggles.

Through a door at the end of the hall, down a passage or two – _Ayesha can certainly run fast!_ – Christine only caught up with and threw her arms around the little girl at the beginning of a colonnade, just after the child had turned her head back to cry something, probably along the lines of how she'd never be able to catch her, and so slowed down enough for her to do just that.

"Got you!" she whispered in Ayesha's perfect little ear, and was rewarded with a giggle. She was just about to let her get up when she heard a voice from the other end of the colonnade, from beyond a barely open door – a voice she knew very well indeed.

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"Now, Nadir, the niceties have been observed – will you tell me what this is about!"

Erik was irritated beyond belief by the way that Nadir looked at him in such a pitying fashion, as he pulled out a book from the veritable stash of tomes he seemed to possess.

"Erik, ever since I found out about your little abduction-"

"It was _not _an abduction!" _How many times must I try to get this into his head?_

"Erik, you may act like a child at times, but now is not the time to do so. I repeat, your abduction of Christine – I have been doing research." He hefted the book in one hand. "It may surprise you to know that this sort of thing is generally frowned upon in most circles."

"Somehow, it doesn't." His irritation was growing more and more as a result of Nadir's ridiculous attitude. "Your decision to repeat this yet again is because…?"

"Because there is a _reason_ why it is frowned upon, and many others have found that out to their own cost. Ever heard of Izanagi and Izanami?"

**_What?_**

"Nadir, it might be galling to say this, but you have lost me."

Nadir sighed, in that infuriating way of his. "They were creator gods in ancient Japan. Izanami died in childbirth, and when her husband went down to the underworld to find her, she had become a vengeful deity. Needless to say he was less eager to bring her back, and he fled-"

"Yes, this is all very thrilling, Nadir, but I don't see what it has to do with me."

"It has _everything_ to do with you, Erik."

"It's just a myth!" _You prat._

Nadir shook his head. _Oh, stop pitying me, you dolt. _"Even myths are founded on truth, Erik. You would do well to learn that."

_Get on with it._

"Your point is? Assuming you _have_ a point?"

He was taken aback by the uncharacteristic frown on Nadir's face. "Oh, I have a point, Erik." He slammed the book down on a clear part of the table, casting aside the usual reverence he had for his tomes, opening it at a certain page. "Read it," he commanded, jabbing with his finger.

_Nobody orders me!_

"Not until you explain to me what you mean by all this babble, Nadir," he said flatly, crossing his arms.

He did his best not to be startled by Nadir's hands crashing down onto the table. "Allah give me patience Erik, will you for once _listen_ to me? Not simply hear, but _listen?_ You say you and Christine are married. But marriage, at least in your culture, is 'until death do you part'. Do you not see? Death has _already_ parted you!" He stabbed his finger at the page – a picture of a human woman, and an obviously dead man, hands once joined in the symbol of matrimony but broken by the dark void that ripped down the page like a crack in the earth.

It was Christine's face that stared up at him from the page, in place of the woman's, and his own half rotting countenance.

He could hardly think for a moment.

_Why…why did I not see…?_

"But-"

"Do _not _protest, Erik! It is a rule that cannot be broken, as time has told! Do not think that you are the first!" Nadir counted off on his fingers. "Izanagi and Izanami! Orpheus and Eurydice! Isis and Osiris! They may be myths, but they are based on the truth, the truth that thousands have learnt over the years! And the truth is that the living _cannot _marry the dead, _or_ stay married to them!"

"Prove it. Prove your little theory isn't just something you have concocted," he managed, trying to quell the shrieking inside him. If this was real, if this was true…then she wouldn't stay. Why would she?

_Why would she stay with a dead man?_

"Haven't you been paying attention at all, Erik? Have you not seen her change in the time you have kept her locked under the earth?" Nadir thumped his hands down on the table, again and again, the drumming beating a pulse inside his skull. "Can you not see how the colour is being drained from her very skin? How she is quieter, more withdrawn? When you claim to love her so dearly, so deeply? No dead person can remain in the Land of the Living, and no mortal can stay in the Land of the Dead without being warped beyond help."

_Oh, no. No. Oh no._

"What…what will happen to her?" he asked slowly, fearing yet desperately wanting the answer. Nadir shook his head slowly, languorously it seemed, as if far away and deep under water.

"I truly do not know, Erik, but it will not be good. At the very least she probably will be slowly drained of her life, until there is nothing left in her except the barest amount. She will be catatonic, unconscious until…unless…"

_What? **What?**_

"Until what, Nadir?" His own voice sounded far away, half-strangled, as he were choking – as if _he_ could still choke!

Nadir's expression sent cold into his body. "Erik, hear me. If you truly wish to marry Christine-"

"I do, Nadir! I _do!_ But…I don't see how!"

"It would require the ultimate sacrifice on her part." Nadir looked down at his hands, then back up at him, holding his gaze. "She would have to give up her life above the earth, to come down here – forever. Do you hear me, Erik? Christine's heart would stop forever – only then would she be free to give it to you."

_This…_this,_ is my punishment. This is what I must truly endure, to atone for my sins._

_It was too good to be true…far too good to be true. A beautiful dream…_

"Nadir…" His voice was so weak. "Nadir, I…I _love_ her."

"I know you do, Erik." Nadir put his hand on his sleeve, but there was no comfort in the action – it was caustic to him. "But do you love her enough to stop her breath in her chest? Do you love her enough to ask her to die, for you?"

_To never feel her in my arms again. To hold her, but never wake her. To never touch her skin and feel its warmth. _

_To never hear her sweet voice break into song. To talk to her, but never have her reply. To never feel her heat beat in her chest._

_To never have her look at me again…_

_To have her eyes forever closed…_

_To have her look at me, and despise me…_

"I…I must think, Nadir. I _must._ Give me time, please, give me that."

"I know." Nadir patted him on the shoulder. "Think then, Erik, but remember; you may have all the time in the world – but she most certainly does not."

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Christine wanted to run. She wanted to run somewhere, anywhere, other than here, in this place.

But there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide! Now, more than ever, she was trapped, trapped, oh god, oh _God…_

Erik was going to leave the room. She had to get back. She had promised she would be waiting in the entrance hall. She leapt up from where she had been crouching on the floor all that time, huddling Ayesha to her, keeping her hand over the child's mouth so that she didn't make any sound to betray them, and ran back the way they had come, holding Ayesha's trembling little body in her arms, biting her lip hard to stop herself from screaming, though heaven knew that she wanted to.

_No living thing grows in the Land of the Dead._

_No living thing survives in the Land of the Dead._

A nightmare of running, praying she made no noise, praying she would get there in time, _What will they do if they knew I overheard, _her breath, her own sweet breath sobbing in her chest – and then the two of them spilled into the entrance hall, and onto the floor. Ayesha's arms were around her neck and pulling her down onto the floor beside the little spirit, the little cold spirit, and she practically bit through her tongue not to scream out loud as she freed herself as gently as she could, so that she would not frighten the little girl more than she already had.

"Don't tell them we heard," she hissed, desperately. "Please, Ayesha, promise you won't tell."

Ayesha nodded, her brown eyes huge and wide in her heart shaped face, her lips trembling.

"Oh, Ayesha," she tried more gently. "I'm sorry, I…"

But she could not go on. She sat up, and pressed a hand to her face – her white hand, bone white, chalk white. How long before it would waste away? How long before it grew so opaque she could see through it? She felt the drain even now, after that run; her life force flowing out of her!

_Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide!_

She clapped both hands to her face, breathed in and out, trying to calm herself, though she knew it was hopeless, there was no hope, no hope at all.

_Why did you bring me here, Erik? Why did you bring me to this place, where your love could so easily destroy me?_

His love would be her doom. Instead of being the key to her salvation, it would mean her destruction. He would never let her wither and decay, and…

_He would rather die than let me go._

_No. He would rather _I _died, than let me go._

**No!**_Erik wouldn't kill me! Not _me!_ He would _never_ do that!_

_Would he?_

Now she knew how often he had killed, how relatively easy it had been for him once, and how easily that skill might be awakened again. But he was tormented by what he had done, and, and, and…

_And what? _

_Oh, God, what will happen to me?_

_What will happen to us?_

The creaking of the door alerted her; at once she threw herself back onto a startled Ayesha, forcing joy into her face as she cried out "Caught you!" Ayesha squealed, more in surprise than anything else, and then they both gazed up at Nadir and Erik, standing in the doorway. Nadir looked more solemn than ever; Erik looked just as bad as she secretly felt, though with all her soul and all the life that was left to her she made herself look adequately surprised, a not-quite child playing with a dead child, interrupted in their innocent game.

"Oh, you've finished already?" She hoped fervently that Erik, with his uncanny ability to hear her heart, would put its frantic beating down to having run so far, so fast – which was no more than the truth.

Ayesha was a proper little actress, or perhaps she simply didn't understand, as she smiled up at the two men, from under Christine.

"We've had such a chase!" she cried out.

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**Yes, the real trauma is coming in here. I don't really like to make fun of this, because to me, this really is very serious. No more fun and games now – this is where it starts to get tough, much as it did in Leroux's book. I mean, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom never actually threatened to _kill_ Christine – maybe others around her, but not her personally. Major philosophical questions – which we won't go into now.**

**The story about the Japanese creator gods is perhaps not so well known, but I've always liked it, in my own ghoulish way. In an odd way, it's sort of another version of Corpse Bride – only now it's a slightly annoyed, half rotting actual wife.**

**Isis and Osiris – yes, well, if you've read Egyptian mythology, as I have, you'd know there's a right little story there. Suffice it to say that Osiris had a rather nasty accident, and as a result Isis had to hike up and down Egypt retrieving the fourteen parts of his body and putting them back together, bringing him back to life _and_ managing to have a son with him, despite the fact that his – erm –'package' got eaten by some fish. (Pretty darn desperate fish, I'd have thought!) I've always loved that myth – I mean, it's so romantic, because they fell in love with each other before they were even born, in their mother's womb, and went on loving each other even after he'd died (though he couldn't stay alive for long, and went back to the underworld to become its king, and Isis went with him – since she was a goddess, she wasn't technically living, so it counts in my story). Yes, there's a whole load of incest and necrophilia. Yes, it led to the Pharaohs marrying their sisters and aunts and nieces and step-mothers and just generally inbreeding for the next three thousand years or so. Yes, it meant that Cleopatra (the famous one) married _both _her brothers (not at the same time!). Yes, it might be read as squicky. _Shuddup!_ It's still good mythology! **

**Well, I break it off there, and leave you to wonder what will happen to our poor characters – all except me. I know _everything _about what's going to happen! Not that that's particularly comforting, sometimes.**

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**Reviews for the half- Irish seamstress!**


	41. The Lucky Ones

**Disclaimer: Don't own. Believe me, I really don't.**

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I am so sorry for taking so long to get this out. I've just been so busy. The last few weeks haven't been too good for me, I must confess. With all this college application preparation, I've been close to breakdown a few times. Now I know what Christine feels like, especially when I longed to pull my own hair out, strand by strand. I'm feeling better now, though.**

**I think this is a bit rushed, and I might go back and adjust it, but I have to say I am proud of the ending. I believe it will be a tribute to those of differing opinions concerning our favourite Vicomte.**

**Also, I think this is the first time I've actually used a pop culture reference as a quote to start off a chapter. (Yes, there was that whole 'Labyrinth' quote that had everyone squeeing with delight, but that doesn't count since that was in mid-chapter.) However, I do really love this song. Take my advice: go to Youtube and listen to this. The full thing is so sad, but so sweet. As for the title, it may be sincere, or may be taken as irony. **

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****"Lucky", by Bif Naked**

It was a Monday, when my lover told me,  
"never pay the reaper with love only."  
What could I say to you, except, "I love you."  
And "I'd give my life for yours."

I know we are... we are the lucky ones.  
I know we are... we are the lucky ones.  
I know we are... we are the lucky ones, dear.

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**The Lucky Ones**

It had barely been half an hour since Defarge's summoning of Nadir had finished, but to Raoul it felt as it was another hundred years in this everlasting, terrible night. They had hastened to get the items he had told them to use, in this, this summoning: a candle, a comb, and an apple.

_All we really need now, _he thought sourly, _is a book and a bell._

"Are you ready, Raoul?" he heard Defarge ask softly. He had been both dreading and craving to hear those words, with an eagerness curdling with deadly apprehension. Nadir had been particularly specific on what could happen, or rather what _would_ happen, if this went wrong. But he could not think about that now. He had to keep his mind clear. If he did not, and it _did _go wrong, more lives than his own were at stake.

"As ready as I will ever be, I would think," he said softly, rolling up his shirt sleeves, having stripped off much of the ridiculous outer layer of his costume. Cecile had, in a frenzy of nervous cleanliness, folded and placed the jacket and tunic on the outside of the un-complete circle Defarge had chalked out a-fresh on the floor. He wouldn't need them anymore.

He turned now to look at the others. It all seemed so dreamlike, so unearthly. Their faces were no doubt as pale as his as they gazed back at him, their expressions solemn. He drank them in, committing them to memory, something to hold onto when he…did this.

Meg, her beautiful golden hair undone and falling down to her waist; her blue eyes shining in the candle light, looking like the angel he knew her to truly be, the comb she had brought from her room ready to use.

Carlotta, the very image of pride and bearing, never once losing her composure, standing tall despite her fear and apprehension in this dread time; clasping an apple as red as her hair.

Cecile, small and slight, like his beloved but unlike; her terror quelled for the moment as she held onto an unlit candle and a match.

Defarge, the razor in his hand, his wrist raw, his face as drained as his forced smile; even though he would have no official part in what was to come, he would have to pour out yet more of his strength in maintaining the holy circle.

But even as he looked, he knew that he could waste no more time. He forced himself to smile in turn.

"Is everybody ready, then?"

"Oh, Raoul!" Meg burst out, unable to control the emotion that had filled her. "Raoul, if you fail-!"

"But I won't." He could not make himself sound convincing. "But, if I do, please, tell my brother and sisters-"

"We know," Cecile interrupted, with far more daring than she had ever shown before. "We'll do it. If we have to, we'll do it."

"Just _go_," Carlotta snapped, the sharpness in her voice belying her nervousness. "Go now, or you will never go at all."

Taking her advice, he turned his back upon them and walked to the mirror, hearing Defarge hastily chalk in the last of the lines that Nadir had instructed them upon. In their haste, they had forgotten to ask him once last time if he knew what to do. Just as well. He knew what he had to do, but being continually asked if such was the case rather lessened his enthusiasm to do it…

_No. This is for Christine. It's for her. Do it for her._

Raoul looked at himself in the mirror, tracing the sallow, haunted contours of his face with his eyes. He made out the faces behind him. They were ready; all they were waiting for was him. It fell to him to start it off.

Hopefully, he would be able to finish this without losing something truly precious tonight – and this time, forever.

* * *

_I wish I could go to sleep. And I wish to God that I could never wake up._

She dully watched the waters for Erik, seated at the foot of the dais rather than on it, right where he had left her. She had heaped her skirts around her like petals around as rose, but she felt less than rose-like, less than innocent.

He had been gone for so long now. Was that all she could do now? Wait feebly for him to return, with the answer to her fate? Could she only exist when he was present, cease to when he left? Could she only act like a wind-up toy when he was there to turn her key and start her mechanism?

_Is that all I am fit for now? Am I merely his toy? His **amusement?** _she thought, as she leaned her head back against the dais, and looked up at the earthen ceiling. Perhaps such was the truth. How could she do anything in this place which she feared and yet had grown to adore, when she could not even touch something without fear of breaking it, or, if it did not break, then what it would do to her? She was like a bird in a cage, singing only when its master came along. _And every bar in the cage has a hidden trap._

_God, how I hate it all. How I hate it here. _

How she wished she cold turn back time. How she wanted to go home. Home. How she wished she had never come here. Had never been brought her.

But what could she do? She knew that she was trapped. Trapped under the earth, trapped by the will of the one who had brought her here, her manipulator, her keeper. And he was trapped too, trapped by his love for her, trapped by the powers that must be, that he must choose between her death, her destruction or losing her forever. In the end, who really was the toy, the keeper, and who was the master?

She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling apart the ringlets that no longer seemed to need combing or curling to retain their shape. She wrenched the strands, feeling the pain in her scalp only dimly. Even the feeling of pain was beginning to fade from her, along with hunger and the need for sleep that cruelly denied her an escape.

It made no difference. Either way, they were lost. For if he chose to keep her fully she died for ever, if he chose to leave her she was worse than dead, and if he chose to let her go – _which of course he will not _– then…then…that would be another kind of death.

She fell to her side, digging her fingers into her scalp, no longer able to hold back her tears that soaked her palms and cuffs pressed against her cheeks.

_We are lost. God help us both, we are both truly lost._

* * *

_It is time._

Raoul reached out his hands and placed them upon the mirror without hesitation, spreading his fingers across the cold surface, even as he knew that behind him Cecile struck the match and lit the candle she held, adding only little light to the shadows of the room.

_Now, the words._

"_I stand upon the brink. I call to one who has gone beyond, but still has ties to this world of light. Show me my beloved." _

The candle-light flowered, but his own face was still mostly in shadow. He preferred to continue in this fashion. Defarge's murmur as he rested his fingers upon the circle to maintain it, too low to make out, was the only sound in the room; until his own voice broke out of his mouth again, unwillingly. The longer he stalled the longer before he would have to go through with this. But then, the longer he would have before he saw her again.

"_I stand upon the brink. I call to one who has gone beyond, but is still of this world's substance. Show me my beloved."_

Meg would now be beginning to comb out her curls, pulling the comb through the crackling clouds of gold, just as Nadir had advised them to do. But he could only concentrate upon the prickling feeling that was now beginning to grow around his fingers, as if the sparks that came with well brushed hair were now in them.

"_I stand upon the brink. I call to one who has gone beyond, but still eats of this world's food. Show me my beloved." _

There was a saccharine crunch, as Carlotta's teeth bit in the skin of the apple. The strange sensation was creeping up his arms, as if they were being plunged into cold, cold water. He did not look forward to when it would reach his chest. But now it was his turn to speak, for himself, the final part of the summoning, or at least the final part in words.

"_I stand upon the brink. I call to one who has gone beyond, but whose heart still beats in accordance with mine. Show me my beloved!"_

The last words turned into a half-scream, despite himself, as the cold stinging reached his shoulders, and clutched at his heart, squeezing it in its icy fingers. Oh God, oh God, it was so cold, it was colder than ice, colder than white fire. Dimly he felt his fingers contract, the nails scraping at the mirror's surface, before they straightened again involuntarily, pressing against the surface that he could no longer truly feel.

He knew that the candle exploded into flame in Cecile's fingers, causing her to shriek and drop it; he knew that Meg's hair crackled and then floated about her head as if she were drowning under water while she was too terrified to comb it; he knew that the apple was suddenly impossibly sour in Carlotta's mouth and she spat and coughed and coughed and coughed, trying to rid herself of the poison. They were all connected to him, in his moment of frost.

But the agony was rewarded with ecstasy, as he saw through the numbness that was now creeping over his face that there was another face over his shoulder, replacing those of the others, just as Nadir had said he would. A familiar face. An anguished face. A truly beloved face. The face he longed to see now more than any other, and in the flesh. The face of the one he would save, no matter the cost.

"_Christine," _came his voice, like a dead thing from between frozen lips, just before his hands plunged through the surface of the mirror.

* * *

"_Christine…"_

What was that? Was he back? Had he returned to her? What was his decision? She started up, looking out across the waters, staring with all her might. She felt her heart leap, treacherously.

But no, there was nothing upon the waters, nothing returning. Would he ever come back, since if he did not do so, he would not have to make a choice?

_Stubborn…selfish…_

_Who am I thinking of? Myself? Or _him?

_Lord, I care not._

She cared for nothing any longer. She could do nothing.

No. there was one thing she could do. She _could_ march into that water, filled with mist, trapped full of souls, and swim, or at least try to, until she reached whatever shore they had set off from, or until she foundered and sank, to add her soul to the whole. Perhaps that would be better than this, this terrible stalemate.

_The water calls me, but I will not answer it. I cannot. I…I have to have hope. _

She dug her fingers into her palm. She wanted to feel her own blood coating her skin rather than flowing beneath it. But she hardly felt anything now.

_What can I do?_

"_Christine…"_

There! There it was again, but no one in sight! No one at all!

_Am I finally going mad, after all?_

"_Christine…"_

_From…the mirror?_

Christine looked, and saw something very different from her reflection.

* * *

_Yes! _The cold washed over him, freezing his face and eyes and tongue and mind, leaving him a statue as the mirror pulled him in, enfolding him in grey as her sweet, dear face became clearer.

_Yes! _He ignored the screams that broke out somewhere in the distance behind him, from people he had once known; he ignored the still of his own heartbeat to a near standstill, a bare throbbing, as he saw only her. He would not, _could not_ allow his mind to be distracted.

_Yes! _He stepped forward, plunging through endless chilling and silvery tunnels in a matter of seconds. Every step brought him closer and closer to her, and the slivers of ice that pulled at his head, pulling him backwards, were nothing to him. He stretched out his hand to her pale, drawn, darling face.

"_Christine…"_

* * *

She could not believe it. She could not believe what she saw. She could not let herself believe, because if she did, if she did, then, then…

_Raoul?_

She could not believe that she saw Raoul in the mirror. How could it be? Raoul could not be here. He simply could not. It made no sense. It was all too much. It was not true. It was another cruel trick in this tricky, tricky place.

_And yet…_

She reached out. It would do no harm to simply _touch_ the mirror, would it? That would not be part of the trick, surely? Erik had done so, and contacted Nadir. Perhaps, perhaps the same would happen here. Perhaps it would.

"_Raoul," _she breathed, as her fingertips touched the surface. _"Raoul…"_

* * *

_Christine._

_Raoul?_

_I'm here, Christine. I am here._

_Raoul? Where are we? What _is_ this place?_

_The mirror, Christine. Nadir said that it was a bridge between this world and the next._

_Nadir? _You _have met him?_

_Yes. And he told us how we might rescue you. It was easy, in the end, Christine. It was so easy…_

_Raoul? What has happened to you? Something-_

_There is no time, Christine. Can you not feel? _He _knows what is happening, he knows what I've done, he's coming back._

_No. Oh no. I can feel him. He's angry. So angry. He's coming, Raoul! Go, or he will destroy you!_

_I will not go without you. That is why I came. Take my hand, come to me Christine!_

_But…I…_

_You can do it, my love! You are strong! Don't let his spells hold you back! Remember everything in the Land of the Living! Remember, with all your being! Remember that I love you!_

_How could I ever forget that?_

_Hurry, Christine, _hurry!

_Oh God, he's coming, he's so near!_

_Then come!_

_How?_

_Take my hand, come to me, I'll guide you back! Quickly, Christine, oh Lord, hurry!_

_I'm coming Raoul! I'm coming!_

_Don't let him-_

* * *

Cold flooded her hand as it plunged through the mirror; she barely felt the impossible feel of the fingers of Raoul's outstretched hand tightly clasp her own. She hardly knew what had happened, but what she knew was the feeling of anger, so close, so very close, and the agonised fear and love mixed into a whirling torrent.

_Don't look back._

She felt the tug upon her hand, pulling her forward, letting the cold run up and up her arm. Raoul, oh Raoul, poor dear Raoul, what had he _done_ to himself? What had he done to get here? What would he do to get them out again? It was madness to think of leaving…

_But it is madness to stay here._

So she stepped forward; her skirts brushed the mirror, and then began to be pulled in as well.

_Don't look back._

Raoul's face in the mirror called to her, though she no longer heard his voice, the words were the same…but they came from another throat…

"_Christine! Christine!"_

_Don't look back…_

She could not help it. As long as some small part of innocence lived in her, it would do whatever it was advised not to. It would touch what it should not. It would stick its fingers in a flame. It would eat forbidden fruit. And it would look back.

So she looked back.

"**_Christine!"_**

_No, Erik. No._

_I am sorry._

_I am _so_ sorry._

And Christine tore herself away from his golden gaze, and pushed forward into the mirror, feeling the cold flood over her, feeling Raoul's hand upon hers, the merest brush of something like bone upon her remaining hand until she snatched it away close to her side, and then it was all gone.

Everything was falling away. All the weight that had pressed down upon her, all the weaknesses, all the things that had drained and pulled her life away; all were disappearing. Raoul's hand was growing more real by the moment. He was leading her. He was her guiding light. She felt herself rising and rising with every step, through earth and space and being.

And with every step she forced herself not to look back. With every step, she forced herself to try to forget her last glimpse of those golden eyes.

With every step, she forced herself not to care.

* * *

"_Raoul! **Raoul!**"_

The screaming was becoming louder again. He hadn't realised before how it made his ears ring, as the cold unplugged them, retreating from his face. It stung terribly. His body was aching and itching with cold.

"I'm here," he heard himself say, in a stupidly dreamy manner, and instinctively took a step back, pulling his hands away from the mirror with a ghastly sucking sound, as if he drew them out of the deepest, darkest, most deadly bog.

He pulled something else out as well. His cold arms came around her damp form as she shucked off the last restraints of the mirror. She collapsed against him, and he collapsed against her, and down they both fell to the floor, landing hard, the pain hammering through him.

But she was here. Here. In his arms. She was here. Every part of his body was screaming at him – his head especially, though heaven knew why, it had been his hands that had gone into the mirror, from what he could remember – but it was all worth it. The price was not too high, never too high.

"Christine?" he whispered, pulling her closer to him.

Her silken hair brushed against his face, and then her hands were on his cheeks and her lips were on his face, pressing them to him again and again, leaving her scent, herself. She was alive, and safe, and free. He had done it.

"Oh Raoul," she whispered, in between her hot little kisses, "I missed you so much, I, I love you so!"

She loved him. She loved him. It was all right again. Even as she cease to caress him and fell back in an exhausted faint, it was all right. She was safe. They were together again. He had done it. He had done it!

_Thank you, God. **Thank you.**_

He became aware of the others around him, but not because of their noise; they were silent, silent as the grave. He looked up at Meg, and all his elation drained away at the look on her face.

"Meg? What is it? What is wrong?" He looked away, disconcerted by her expression, and saw that she was not the only one who looked aghast. Carlotta's fingers clutched her rosary yet again and counted her beads as she stared at him, and Cecile's hands had gone to her mouth. Even Defarge was wide eyed, and gulped continuously as he slowly rose to his feet, rubbing out the chalk circle.

"Oh, Raoul…"

"What is it? Why are you staring at me like that?" He held Christine closer; surely they did not doubt it was her! "She's here! She's real! It _is_ her! Surely you don't think that-"

"It is not that," Carlotta broke in, her voice low. "Raoul – look at yourself."

Some inborn trait within him made him say, "No. You'll tell me. _Now. _What happened? Why were you screaming?"

To his surprise, it was timid little Cecile who spoke when no other would, albeit with hesitations. "When…when you finished speaking, your hands…sank into the mirror, and frost crept up your arms. It was terrifying, we thought you would be sucked in fully, but Defarge wouldn't let us cross the line to rescue you, he said that if we did that you would be killed instantly. Then you started crying out Christine's name, and then, just before you came back…oh, Raoul…your _hair…_"

He hardly dared to turn and look at himself in the mirror, for fear of what he would see. He stared, and what he saw he could see made the colour drain from his face; to match his hair.

His hair had come loose from its tie behind his head, and fell to his shoulders; but it was no longer honey-brown. It wasn't even grey, like Grandpére's. It was white, pure white, the colour of snow, the colour of bleached bones, without a single speck of darkness left in any strand upon his head. It lay flat, dead-looking and lifeless against his equally pale skin.

"It suddenly floated out, as if you were under water; it started at your scalp and the colour just leeched out until there nothing left, nothing left at all," Meg said, just before she began to cry as she crouched down beside him. Then Cecile began to cry too, and even Carlotta began to sob and sob as if she would never stop, as they fell to their knees around them, throwing their arms around Christine and around him too, so that they were both enveloped in warmth; but nothing could ever take away the chill that had stuck in his heart…

…when for a moment he had looked into the mirror, and seen them both dead and cold in each other's arms.

* * *

_You will be, Vicomte._

_You _**will** _be._

* * *

**The procedure used above (without the words, which were made up on the spur of the moment by me) supposedly works. _Supposedly_ being the word, of course. It _doesn't_ summon up your trapped lover from the nethermost depths of the Underworld, sad to say, _but_ if you're a girl and on Halloween night you light a candle and then stand in front of a mirror brushing your hair and eating an apple, you'll see the face of the man you're going to marry over your shoulder. I repeat, _supposedly. _Of course, if you're already married there isn't really much point; and if you _aren't_ married and you don't really like whoever it appears you're going to tie the knot with, you don't get a second go. Sort of like that red string Chinese and Japanese matchmakers are always going on about.**

**I have always, I confess, been rather interested by how hair can change colour, sometimes over night. Take my mum, for example. When she was little, as far as I know her hair was blonde (I say as far as I know, because all the photos of her at that time are in black and white.) Now, her hair's really dark. What is the point of _that? _And as for hair changing colour so drastically, I once read about a man in his early twenties whose hair turned completely grey over night! DNA has a lot to answer for. Not in this case though; Raoul just got a bit of life sucked out of him. Much more snazzy.**

**

* * *

Reviews, please? Make the half-Irish seamstress feel better?**


	42. Revelation

**Disclaimer: I do not own. Except for the tendency to get stroppy. That I _do _own.**

**

* * *

A return to Meg's point of view, and a plot line that hasn't seen some action in a while. And a surprise!****

* * *

Look here, upon this picture, and on this…**

**See, what a grace was seated on this brow –**

**Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself…**

**This was your husband. – Look you now, what follows:**

**Here is your husband, like a mildewed ear…**

…**Have you eyes?**

**Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed and batten on this moor?**

**Hamlet, Act III, Scene IV **

**(I'm using Shakespeare quite a lot, aren't I? Blame it on the English educational system. It beats _Romeo and Juliet,_ at any rate.)**

**

* * *

Zehra: Beware too much homesickness my son, it's a worm that eats hope and gnaws at your strength.**

**Amir: And why aren't you homesick at all? Why don't you ever grieve for my father?**

**Zehra: How can you know what I feel!**

_**Pause.**_

**Zehra:I am a mother. I owe my son a future.**

**Amir: I may not want it.**

**The Ash Girl, Act One, Scene Four by Timberlake Wertenbaker**

**(I love this play, and not just because I played an otter/coachman in it.)**

**

* * *

**

Revelation

Meg pulled her crackling hair back, and tucked the curls behind her ears. That done she retreated to the side of the bed, blew out the single candle she had used to light her way, and sat down in the relative dark. The moonlight shone through the window, and painted her bare shoulders a ghastly shade on either side of her, reminding her very much of the colour of Raoul's face only a while before.

This was more than she could bear. She rose to close the heavy curtains, and groped her way back to the bed. The darkness was better than the light to her, now. When she was a child she had been afraid of the dark, a fear she had carried into her later years, but what she had seen tonight had banished all her terror of it.

_I do not fear the dark, now. I fear what might lie within it._

She found it was easier now to think of what had happened without crying. After all, why should she cry? Christine had been rescued, and was unharmed, as far as they could tell. Raoul was alive, if more in need of Carlotta's hair dye than Cecile had been. They were all safe. Safe.

She only hoped, she only prayed, that that was true.

But for now, there was something even more pressing. Something that had to be resolved. She dug her fingers into the counterpane, and waited in the dark and the cold. She longed to wrap the blanket around her, but that would not do. She should not be seen to be weak, or child-like, not now.

She did not have to wait long. Soon there was the creak of the door, and a silhouette appeared in the dark doorway.

"Back so soon?" she said quietly, trying not to quail at the thought that it might not be who she was expecting, but _something _else…

The figure gasped, and swiftly turned on the gas lamp beside the door, illuminating her mother's startled face. "_Meg!_ What are you doing here? Good grief, you frightened me!"

"Good. I'm _glad_ I frightened you."

Her mother paused in the act of closing the door behind her, shooting her the hard look she did so well. But Meg met it with one she hoped was just as hard.

"You look very beautiful tonight, mother."

The older woman seemed taken aback, as the door finally snapped shut, apparently lost for words. "Why…well, thank you, Meg."

"I am sure Comte Philippe thought so as well," Meg went on, apparently carelessly, but shrewdly gauging her reaction. She was rewarded by her mother's stiffening, for all her acting talent upon the stage. When she finally spoke, her voice was far quieter than was normal for the confident if not brash Madame Giry.

"You saw, then."

"Certainly I saw. I saw you dancing with _him_ – considerably more warmly than a female guest should dance with a male host. What _is_ this, mother? What are you _thinking?_"

_How can you behave in such a way, you…you…**traitor?**_

"What are _you _thinking, my daughter?" her mother retorted, crossing to her dressing table. "Has it suddenly become a crime for a widow to dance with a Comte, her generous host? You have a very fertile imagination, Marguerite Giry – too fertile for your own good, I should imagine."

"Perhaps…but it is seeded with suspicion, Mother." Meg pushed herself up off the bed, walking over to her where she had halted by the dressing table. "Where did you get that dress?" she added, looking sourly at the beautiful kimono that shone in the lamp light, shining maliciously at her. "Did _he _give it to you? Along with the hair pins? And the mask? And the fan?"

"And why should it matter to you if he did?" her mother said, fixing her eyes on the mirror and beginning to remove the precious stones from her ears. "It is…merely a gown. With trimmings, yes, but that is nothing. He saw that I had nothing suitable to wear for the masquerade, so he provided it for me-"

"Nothing suitable? _Rubbish!_ You have any number of gowns!" she snapped. "Or at least a fair number, at any rate, without them being added to in such a manner. I repeat, mother: what is this about?"

"It is about _nothing_, daughter. _Nothing_, do you hear me? Now go, for I would call Antoinette to help me undress." Her mother turned to look back in the mirror again, reaching up to pull out a hair pin. Meg could see that where her hand rested upon the polished wood to support herself, there, there practically touching her polished nails was Father's picture in its frame. Why did his ghost not rise yelling from the grave, as she now knew was possible, at this treachery?

It was more than she could bear, and she acted upon it. "Oh, mother, why does your tongue not turn black in your mouth at your words?"

Madame Giry's hair tumbled down her back, as her eyes grew wide.

"How can you spit upon Father's memory like this?" Meg snarled, coming up behind her, though not daring to look at herself in the mirror – _not now, not after…_"How can you look at yourself and bear the sight of a treacherous, _lying_-"

"You little _brat_, how dare you?"

She dodged back from her mother's intended slap, her blood hammering in her temples. "How dare I? How dare _you_. You said, when Father died, you _said _that you would never love another man. And now here you are, wearing another man's gift, dancing in his arms, smiling up at him enough to make one _sick!"_

Madame Giry stepped backwards from her anger, and sank down onto the divan behind her, her breath now coming fast as she clutched at her stomacher. "What are you trying to do to me?"

"What I am attempting is nothing, to what you seem to be doing, mother." Meg picked up Father's picture; trying to ignore the lump in her throat, trying not to look at her mother's tortured face, or her own in the mirror. _Don't look in the mirror._ "Are you so tired of being a widow?" she demanded, thrusting the picture out towards the divan and its sprawling occupant. "Are you so tired of mourning my father's memory? Are you?"

"I loved him," her mother choked, her face now growing damp, her breath coming in moans. "Oh God, oh God, I _loved_ him, he was my only love, my only love-"

"_Liar!" _Meg choked, pain ripping through her throat, her eyes burning. She slammed the picture in its frame down on the table, trying to cover up her threatening tears. _God, she's such a liar! _"And _stop_ looking at yourself in the mirror!" she added for good measure, seizing hold of the frame of the mirror and slamming the ornament down.

Her rage was such that at first she hardly noticed the pain in her fingers; but when she did it was _agony._

"Ah! _Merde!" _she hissed, clutching her stinging fingers with her unharmed hand, tears now welling at the corners of her eyes from the pain.

"Meg? What happened? Did the mirror break, did it cut you?"

"Leave it be!" Already Madame Giry had risen from the divan, was pulling at her arm. "Leave it be. I am fine, I tell you, I am fine." _I am fine. I am fine._

"Oh, very fine, for a hysterical girl. Sit, sit down!" Her mother's arm wrapped itself around her shoulders, forced her down onto the plush of the divan, brought her cheek against her breast, as it was when she was a little girl and she had had a nightmare. _Everything is a nightmare now as well._

"Meg, your…your fingers are red, as if burnt. What happened?"

"It was the mirror. Oh Mama, it was the mirror. It wants me. It wants us all. It wants to drag us all down to Hell!" Meg could not stop herself, despite her inner screams. All her frustration, her fear, her dread was pouring out in her tears, as treacherous as those of her mother who now rocked her and shushed her like a baby.

"Meg, Meg, I do _not_ love the Comte. I have no desire to love the Comte. He has been kind to me, and I have been pleasant to him, but that is all. Meg, Meg, I would never betray your father, never. I loved Georges. With all my heart, I loved him. I will never stop loving him, Meg, _never_."

"How can I believe you?" Meg blurted. "You might be lying. How can you say you loved him, when you mourned him so little, then and now? How can you say you loved him when you never even speak of him?"

Now she felt her mother's fingers running through her hair, as they had not done since she was little. "There are different kinds of mourning, Meg. How do you know that I was not sharing all the agony that you showed in your floods of grief when he died? How do you know that, in my silent heart, I disposed my un-used tears? I wept in my time too, my Meg, my life, but what good would that do? Your father would not want either of us to waste our lives weeping ourselves into our graves. He told me so himself, a little whiel before he died."

"But he didn't tell you to marry again!" Meg spat accusingly, or as well as she could with half her face buried in embroidery.

"No, that he did not." Her mother's embrace tightened. "Meg, I have done you and Georges both wrong. Not by dancing with the Comte, for even you, when you are calmer and not so inclined to scream, will admit that that is not a crime. But I was not there when you needed me – not truly. When your father died I abandoned you to wallow in my own sorrow, and so I wronged both you and your father. I know it is late, but perhaps I can make amends by becoming more willing to listen than to scold. So, I am ready to hear why you suddenly have begun to burn at the touch of a mirror's surface, and why your thoughts are so taken up with thoughts of Hell. I am here for you, my daughter, and I always will be, and I will never, ever leave you. You do not need to fear anymore. So." A finger came under her, and tilted her head up towards her mother's still damp, shining face, but also shining with remorse and love. "Tell me what is wrong, Meg. Please, tell me."

All the rage at her mother and their danger had drained from her, leaving only dread and fear stewing within her; of the mirror, of what it had done, and what was waiting beyond it.

"He'll come for us," she whispered. "He'll come for us through the mirror, from Hell. He claw for us, with his horrible skeleton fingers, and leer at us with his half-face as he destroys us, I know he will!" She buried her face in her mother's lacy breast, and threw her arms around her waist at last.

"Who?"

"_Erik."_

Her mother's arms tightened around her, perhaps fearing she would be snatched away from her. "Oh, God, no."

This was enough to cause her to look up once more at her mother's stricken face. "Mama? What is wrong?"

"How do you know of Erik?" But Madame Giry began to ramble, hardly seeming to be aware of her daughter's presence any more, staring instead at the disabled mirror. "A man with half a face? A skeletal face? Hidden by a mask? And…dead?"

"Yes, as far as I know from Raoul," Meg said cautiously, deciding to play along.

If it were possible, her mother's grip grew tighter still. "Dear God, I thought it would start again, but not like this, never like this. Oh, my dear…"

"Mama? D you know of Erik, then?"

"Know him? Know him, why, I-" Suddenly her mother's gaze snapped back to her, letting go of her to let her sit up more properly; her distracted look gone as if it had never existed, to be replaced with one of hard determination. "Meg, my love, I must tell you something, but upon your word, perhaps your life, you _must_ keep it a secret. Do you promise me this? Do you promise?"

Still wondering, Meg nodded.

"Very well. Something very evil happened here, on these lands, many years ago. A man who had done no wrong, nor crime whatsoever was attacked and hunted and driven to his death by other men, no better than a criminal, a dog. He was buried in the woods."

_Oh Lord, then that story Buquet told us was _true?

"That's what Buquet, the grounds man, told us!" she could not help blurting out. "But he said it was just a story, a ghost story!"

"Sadly, it was not a story, but the truth, if a concealed truth." Madame Giry shook her head sadly, regretfully. "My father, your grandfather – yes," in answer to her no doubt astonished look, "your grandfather lived around here once long ago, Meg, before he moved to Paris and met my mother. He told me what happened that day, for he was one of the men who were ordered to chase the man, Erik, and finish him off. He told me that he and his comrades found him dead where he had fallen, near the graveyard, and that they buried him where he lay, while he supervised the burial. He told me about the man's mask that had half fallen off, showing his face; or at least what was left of it, enough to give a brave man nightmares for the rest of his days. But that did not frighten me; what truly chilled me was something your grandfather told me that I will never forget, either – that at the time, he felt inclined to swear that he had never seen a corpse's eyes so filled with fire, with life that still seemed present, as if it were merely the body that had died and _he_ was still alive within it, raging at them. To your grandfather's mind it was as if they were burying someone alive, as if one day _he_ might come roaring and tearing his way out of the earth once more, to bring retribution to those who had murdered him. He confessed it was fear of this that had actually caused him to pull up his roots and move; and it might have been as well that he did so, for he knew that not very many of those who buried Erik lived long after his murder."

Meg hardly knew what to say. "All these for an ordinary man, however scarred he was?"

Her mother shook her head again, grimly, biting her lip before speaking.

"Ah, my dear, there is much more to Erik than you could possibly know…"

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Too tired. But not so tired that I cannot speak on Marguerite's little outburst:**

**When I was reading this to Mum, she wasn't too pleased that Meg was slagging _her_ mum off in such a way. Now, I know that I am not part of a single parent family, and I pray I never will be, but I believe that a lot of children in such a situation are very jealous of that single parent, and loath to yield them up to any prospective partner that might come along, meaning they get very angry if such a thing looks as if it might be happening. Added to that is this death bed promise that Meg knows of, plus all the stress of bringing Christine back _and _the fact that she appears to have developed a phobia of mirrors, and _voila!_ A screaming fit, that was long in the coming.**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress, please?**


	43. The parting of the ways

**Disclaimer: Don't own. What're you going to do about it? Come on, _what?_**

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This chapter is based upon my favourite song in Corpse Bride, 'Tears to shed'.**

**Which says just about everything about the chapter. **

**It might come as a bit of a surprise to when you see how Erik acts, but his isn't exactly the most stable of personalities, after all. Or the most definite.**

**So – the crush of loss. Not nice. Anyone who's ever lost someone they loved, obsessively, passionately, or otherwise, take heart – _You are not alone!_ **

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Cyrano, after having fought a duel against a hundred men, has just been told by his cousin Roxane, whom he loves, that she loves someone else. Just before she leaves for a gathering:**_

**Roxane: A hundred men? Farewell. We're friends, aren't we? He must write. A hundred men! You must tell me all about it! A hundred! What courage! (Leaves.)**

**Cyrano(quietly): I have been braver since.**

**(Cyrano de Bergerac, by Edmond Rostand)**

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The parting of the ways

The shattered fragments of the mirror sparkled upon the floor, and crackled under Erik's shoe and his skeleton foot as he glared at Nadir, standing so shamelessly, so _brazenly_ upon his shore, with perhaps the faintest trace of triumph in his odiously calm face. It was perhaps not so surprising that he should now be _here,_ at all times. How else would the de Chagny brat know what to do? How else would he know where to seek her, and how to draw her back, where no other but _he _should be able to manage the task?

"_You knew," _he said, pointing the bony, accusing finger of his left hand. "You knew what was happening, didn't you? You told that, that _boy _where she was, you told her what to do to get her back?"

"I do not deny it, Erik," his erstwhile friend said calmly, folding his arms and lifting his chin defiantly. "Look me full in the face, and see if _you_ can deny that I could have done any less for him."

"You certainly could have done far better than betraying me."

Erik had to work extremely hard in order not to shout, to avoid the rage that he had forced down inside him after shattering the main mirror with both his fists moments after _she _had slipped through the desperate grasp of his fingers, both flesh and suddenly, abruptly, skeletal. He could feel the wetness of a little blood as he squeezed his fist tight shut, driving the splinters of mirror that had lacerated his dead skin deeper into his flesh, but as always he felt no pain. Even if he had been scorched with flame and heat until his flesh seared and bubbled and melted, or if he had been cut and sliced with a knife until the flesh was cut from his bones, he would have felt no pain, no pain at all.

The pain he was currently feeling within his breast was far, far worse than any cut or impaling fragment of glass and mercury.

"You are letting your anger get the better of you, Erik."

"I am _not_ angry, Nadir," he ground out, squeezing his fingers tighter still.

Nadir cast a sceptical glance at the broken glass scattered over the dais and steps, even down to his feet. "The state of your décor would seem to imply otherwise."

He looked down as well. There _was _a lot of glass, since it had been a large mirror when it was all in one piece and in the frame. It had shattered in all directions, not just from the blow of his hands, when he realised that he had lost _her, _forever.

"The state of the décor has nothing to do with it, Nadir. I know better than anyone what mood I am in at the present moment."

"And what mood are you in at the present moment, Erik?"

"I am sad. _Why, _Nadir?" he asked doggedly, taking a step forward, crunching more glass shards under his right foot, feeling nothing through the bone. "Why did you do it? How could you do this to me?"

Nadir stretched out his hands in supplication, his fingers spreading wide in the sudden gloom of the cavern. "It was all I could do, Erik. What would _you_ have had me do? The Vicomte came to me for help, in his time of direst need, and he has paid his price in his own way. Who did I owe my allegiance to more? The one who snatched Christine away to the Land of the Dead? Or the one who sought to bring her back to the Land of the Living?"

_You dare ask me this? _It was amazing to Erik that Nadir could still be so defiant. How could he behave like this? How could he have done this to him? To _him, _of all people?

_What has happened to you, Nadir? How could you come to hate me so, that you could do this?_

"I do not know, Nadir. It _is _a difficult question. Very like to the choice of whether to keep Christine and let her wither or die, or give her up and lose her forever. But you, you did not even give me the _chance_ to choose."

Nadir was hatefully implacable, as he shook his head and sighed infuriatingly. "I did my best to make it easier for you, Erik. I know that in time, you will come to see this."

"_Easier? _Nadir, how can possibly you think that this is in any way _easy?_ She is gone. She left me. She left me alone. You have helped her to rip my heart out of my chest, you helped her to…"

_Oh._

_**Oh.**_

And suddenly, like a dark, poisonous flower, like a black iris, an idea sprouted in his mind. He remembered so little a time ago, yet as if it were from long years back, the meeting in Nadir's study. He remembered what Nadir had told him. How could he forget it, when he had wracked his mind so much over those words?

Christine had gone off to play with Ayesha. But where had they played, that they should be so worn out with running? Where indeed, but somewhere where they could overhear, and judge for themselves…

He was embroiled in this, in this whole squalid plot, from the very beginning; he was there at the beginning and the end.

_Oh, how you will _all _pay for this._

"You made sure that she knew as well, did you not?" he asked softly, deceptively calmly. "You made sure that she was listening while we had our discussion in your study. _You_ turned her against me."

"No, Erik. I merely made sure that she knew the truth of her situation. It was only fair."

But Erik could hardly hear him, so wrapped up was he in his own horror. _She thought…she thought that I would have… _

"You made sure she would hear us speak, you made sure she would hear what you said, about…about…Nadir, you made sure that she would think that I would kill her."

Nadir said nothing. To his credit, if nothing else, shame was rampant in his face.

He lifted his left hand, and pressed his bony fingers to his face, digging what was left of his nails in, hard, scratching his mask and flesh, trying to keep from screaming, screaming until he dropped to the floor and tore at himself. This was no nightmare. This was real. This was true.

Christine was gone. The de Chagny had taken her away from him.

And, to the very last, she had believed that he would have been willing to murder her.

"Erik, I-"

"Go, Nadir. Go, before I do something I would not regret in the slightest. Leave this place. Now."

But Nadir took a step forward, reaching his pathetic hand out towards him. "Erik…"

"I said _go, _Nadir. Leave, and never come back. If you do, I will not be as generous as I am now."

Nadir halted in his advance, and his face twisted as his hand fell. "Is this truly what you wish, Erik? Do you truly wish me to leave?"

_Should I wish for anything else, after what _you_ have done to me?_

"Yes, Nadir, that is what I wish. I – I would say that you are dead to me," he admitted, letting a smile curl the corners of his mouth for an instant, "but that is a little redundant, is it not? Instead, shall I say that you are nothing to me now, nothing except a liar, a deceiver and a traitor?"

"I can see that it is your anger speaking through you, Erik. So I _will _go, for now. But I hope…" Nadir looked over his shoulder, his slit throat twisting horribly, as he faced the exit to the cavern, preparing to depart, "I hope that, one day, you will be able to overcome your anger, and that you will find yourself able to forgive me."

_You dare? Of course you dare, you **bastard.**_

"I will never forgive you, Daroga," he said, lowering his hand and staring fixedly at his own personal Judas. "If we stay beneath the earth for all existence, if we last as long as the world itself and forget all else, then remember this; I will never forgive you for what you have done to me. I will never think of you again without thinking also that you betrayed me, that you betrayed my trust in you, and that you betrayed my love, our love."

He could feel wetness somewhere other than his fingers now, beading at the corners of his eyes. But he did not blink, and he did not allow his voice to be choked by the tears that would inevitably come. For now, he was too angry.

"Erik; Erik, please-" Nadir had turned around fully now. Despite his former words he now seemed to be pleading, desperately, passionately. He stretched out his arms once more, and stepped forward as if to embrace Erik as he had done so often before, and drain him of his anger like a doctor draining the poison from a wound.

_But this is no poison. This is a cure. _And so he stepped backwards, eluding Nadir's fingers, his eyes never leaving his face, his voice as cold as the ice that had shattered his mirrors.

"I will never think of you without remembering that you engineered my second down fall. I will never think of you without hating you, Daroga. Remember that. I will never forgive what you have done, and I will never forget it. I will never stop hating you. Now get out of my sight. You are unclean, and you are cursed."

He drew up the reserves of saliva always present in his mouldering mouth, and he hissed and spat at Nadir's feet, before sweeping out his arm to banish him from his sight, forever.

Despite his rage, he knew that the last he saw of his erstwhile friend's face, appalled and horror-struck, would stay with him, unable to be banished. But he knew, too, that he would never again see it in the flesh; that he would never hear Nadir laugh or be insufferably dull, or see him frown or smile at him. He knew that he had turned away from that little white-washed house in the Necropolis, the only thing which had ever drawn him to that place. He knew he would never again see the love and joy in Ayesha's eyes, he would never stretch out his arms to catch her up from her run towards him, he would never stroke her hair and feel her soft little body in his embrace.

But then, he would never see Christine again, either.

_She is gone._

Distractedly he waved his hand at the mirror, repairing it in an instant; but the surface was frosted over, and he could see nothing within it now. Not that there was anything he would want to see, in any case.

_She is gone._

His rage was melting now, melting from the ice Nadir deserved to be encased in forever and a day, forever clutching and forever freezing, worthy of such a traitor as he. His heart was full of pain, deep, ripping pain. He hadn't thought that anything could possibly hurt this much; it was impossible, illogical. It could not be.

_But it is._

He made his slow, solemn way up the steps, past the organ where he had sat and played her his music, past the roses which had so depressed her, past the mannequin which once again held the ill-fated wedding gown, complete with its most recent embellishments, and to the bedroom whence she had dragged him when he had been lost before.

Now he was lost again. But there would be no Christine to make it all better again.

_She is gone_

The dressing gown he had given her still lay upon the bed, the coverlet still rumpled from when they had risen from their waking embrace. If he concentrated he could still smell her. Not any perfume, nor scent; just simply _her_, musky and cloudy, not sharp and sweet. Now he no longer needed to concentrate; her presence soaked everything in the room.

He would have to lie down. He no longer could support himself. His bones creaked and squealed in protest as he settled himself down upon the velvet covers, and swung his legs up to rest upon the mattress of the bed.

He lay back carefully upon the pillows, weighed down by all the years he only now felt upon him, all the years he had been alive and dead, pressing down, smothering him – only he could not die again.

_She is gone._

She was gone. Where he had held her so close, so tight that her heart beat had fluttered through his frame as well as hers, there was now nothing to hold close, nothing to embrace, nothing to comfort him, ever again.

_Why did you leave me, Christine? How _could_ you?_

But he knew very well why. Of course he knew. She had wanted to live. She would never have married a dead man. She had said so, from the first.

"_You are dead! Dead! I will not marry Death!"_

He knew so well how her heat beat. Sometimes it was like a butterfly's wings fluttering, at other times like the banging of a drum. The beat of blood, the true music of life, far beyond anything he could compose or create. He knew her heart beat.

And he knew that de Chagny's heart beat as well.

_If I had lived…if I had lived, would she have stayed?_

_If I had been handsome, would she have stayed? Would she have still loved _him?

_If she had been able to see me, truly…if I had _allowed_ her to see, would she have stayed? Would she have grown to love me?_

_Now I will never know._

He knew that de Chagny was handsome; he had seen how attractive he was, in the moment of glory at the ball. De Chagny's sweet, boyish face would always outdo his own half-face.

And while he was a genius, while he played the piano and sang as no man, alive or dead, had before, and sculpted, and designed, and poured out art in a never ending flow, de Chagny was alive, and that surpassed all else. It came first.

_I breathe music. I breathe song. I breathe art. _

_But _he_ still breathes air._

And yet…and yet, she had been crying. He remembered. In that instant when his fingers had brushed her own, and she had turned to look back at him, before she had denied him, he had seen her tears. Why had she cried? Had she not wished to leave him, after all, even after all that he had done to her, all that Nadir had led her to believe?

Had she still wished to stay, even though she thought he might kill her?

And yet she didn't even say goodbye. _That _hit him harder than anything else. Out of all the pain, the betrayal, the loss, the hardest and most tearing thing was that her last words to him had not been a farewell, but…an apology. As if _she _was the one in the wrong. As if _she _was to blame.

His heart ached as if it might burst and pour out its grief, to stain like blood upon the sheets.

He leaned further back against the pillows, and took his heart in both hands to try to heal it, to try to remedy the hurt. But nothing would ever aid him, no one would ever help him or hold him again…

…_because I've lost her._

Warmth and cold no longer made any difference; in the ice or the sun that he had not seen in so many years, it was all the same. But the pain in his heart was too much to bear. If he had lived it might well have killed him, but he had no life left to take away.

Even though his heart no longer beat, it was still breaking, just as he had broken the mirror time and time again. Anyone who calimed a heart could not break had only to feel the splintered remains in his chest for themselves to know that it was very real.

He folded his hands over his heart, as a corpse prepared for burial might do, as he had never done in his own grave.

_I know that I am dead…_

…_but it seems that I still have some tears to shed._

He closed his eyes as the tears finally came.

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Awww. Weren't that _sad, _folks? Yes, come one, you know it was sad. You _know _it was.**

'**Tears to shed', as I said before, has always been one of my favourite songs. I've always been fond of songs that can make me go all snivelly – then again, the ending of _Gladiator _sets me off bawling like a baby every single time I watch it, as does _Titanic_ and _The Fellowship of the Ring_. This only had me sniffing when I saw it in the cinema, but I assure you my eyes were definitely damp. That little couplet at the end is _just so saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!_ **

**I wanted this chapter to be longer, but I honestly couldn't think of much else to put down concerning Erik's feelings on the matter at this point. Let's put it down to shock, shall we? Shock is such a nice explanation for not having to write too much, plus it's realistic. Yay for shock! In stories of course; not actually suffering it, since it's not so nice if you do.**

**Anyone who might be thinking some things about what Erik thinks Nadir deserves are right; I _did _look up Dante's Inferno for this. Traitors are given a place in the Ninth Circle of Hell, furthest from the presence of God, trapped in a frozen lake; those who are traitors to their kindred are trapped in it up to their waists, and since Nadir and Erik have grown to be something like brothers, I assume that Erik would think this fitting for Nadir – assuming, of course, that he was religious, and had actually read Dante's Inferno. I seriously recommend all of you do, even if you aren't religious; it is _extremely_ good, even though there may be some bits that offend, particularly the bits about homosexuality – but then again, it _was _written in a time where the young sodomites got their noses cut off and their backs flayed, and the older ones burned at the stake. Anyway, it is a _very_ good read. However, Dante's Paradiso…**

…**let's just say, with great goodness comes great, _great_ boringness.**

**I'm sorry, but there it is. **

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress, please?**


	44. All I ask of you

**Disclaimer: Don't own. My bad.**

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Thank goodness; my reading for various college interviews is finally _done!_ Don't get me wrong, I love reading; but reading stuff you don't necessarily like but still have to digest is like having to eat a meal you can cope with but don't particularly like, _every single night until it makes you want to scream. _(And be sick.)**

**Well, here we have Christine's viewpoint of the aftermath. And yes, this is dedicated to AIAOY, since that's probably my favourite song in the musical. I know it really shouldn't be, considering it's as soppy as a really wet flannel, and I'm a girl who enjoys writing about half decayed phantoms and walking corpses and slit throats (if you don't believe me, read some of my other works – you would not _believe _what I was planning to get a twelve year old girl to do, though ultimately I abandoned that story)…but…darn it…_it's just so_ BEAUUUUUUUUUUUUTIFUL!**

**I think I need a good old weep.**

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"**Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred that one good remembrance – and shall thank and bless you for it – that my last avowal of myself was made to you, and that my name, and faultsm and miseries were gently carried in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!"**

**A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens**

(Interesting fact; my sister was named after Lucie Mannette!)

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All I ask of you

It was the whispers from beyond the darkness of her closed eyes that finally called Christine back from the darkness in her head. She was more reluctant than ever to leave it; it was warm enough and dark enough to stay there forever now, lacking nothing, without worry or care, without dream or nightmare.

But the voices of the living – or at least those of the aware - drew her back.

"_He wants to see her. Should we wake her?"_

"_No. She's tired. I'm tired, for that matter. He can just wait until she's ready to see him, rather than the other way around. It would be cruel-"_

"_It would be even crueler if we woke her by talking too loud, yes?"_

"Too late for that," she heard her own voice croak from within her, instinctively with the cynicism that had flowered and grown within her soul, as she lifted her head from the softness that cushioned her head, her whole body. She managed to open her eyes, crusty with sleep, half expecting to see the black lace canopy hung above the swan bed – but all that met her sight, apart from bright light which made her cringe, completely unlike the candle light that she had become use to, were the lace hangings above her own bed-

_Her own bed._

_I'm back. _At once all the memories of what had happened, to her as well as to others, flooded back in one great gush, so strong that she felt as if her head and heart might burst with it all. She could remember her despair, and Raoul calling her through the mirror, how she had travelled through that cold, dark place, and then collapsed into _his_ arms…her face burned when she thought of that, but her heart fluttered not unpleasantly as well.

"Christine?"

At once there was a flurry of activity around her, as she struggled up from beneath the blankets she could feel that had been heaped upon her prone form; as her eyes grew used to the light she could see that Meg was there, dear darling Meg, her eyes shadowed with tiredness but bright with suppressed joy, and Carlotta as well, all her haughtiness for the moment gone as she tried to push her back into the nest of pillows, and Cecile was behind them, another blanket in her arms, smiling despite herself and despite the proper conduct of a maid. She lay back in shock as they fussed around her, practically glowing, shining with nourishing light and warmth.

"Christine, don't get up, lie back down at once!"

"You are tired; you must have rest, as Meg says you must not get up."

"I've brought you another blanket, Mademoiselle Daaé, and I'll bring you some hot broth soon. Just lie down."

Such simple words, and yet she was almost bowled over by the love and affection and concern that flowed from the three as they gently forced her back onto her bed, bolstered up the pillows behind her, tucked the blankets more firmly over her so that she had no chance of escaping and anchored her down with the final one; all the while smoothing her hair and stroking her forehead and rubbing warmth back into her hands and arms, until she felt smothered by the weight of their feelings as she was by the many layers on top of her.

"It's all right now, Christine," Meg murmured beside her, pushing a strand of hair back from her forehead as the other two drew away for the moment. "You're safe. You're back home, and we won't let _anything_ happen to you again."

She blinked at this softness in Meg's character. Normally her friend would be saying exactly what she thought at this point, and she had a feeling that her absence had caused more anger and concern than these three were at the moment showing, considering how Raoul had reacted after his initial joy at seeing her again at the ball. "Meg? You're not…angry with me?"

This brought a wider, mischievous smile to Meg's face, replacing the softly comforting one that had been there before. "Stupid girl," she replied, but with no malice in her voice. "Of _course_ I'm angry, but not so much with you. All the same, I probably won't speak to you for days after you're better, for what we had to go through because of you."

"I will be angry for you for now, then." Carlotta had made her way to the other side of the bed, and now fixing her with a benevolent glare, arms akimbo. "You gave us such a _scare_, you know that? Meg thought you might have been kidnapped or killed or some such horrid thing! We had the grounds-men searching all over the country-side for you! _And_ we had to get Cecile to pretend to be you at the masquerade, which was _not_ easy for any of use, let me tell you that!"

_I _did _miss a good deal while I was away._

_While I was away…_

"Cecile pretended to be me?" She looked over curiously at her maid, who smiled shyly and bobbed a hurried curtsey, murmuring "It was no trouble."

"Persuading you to do it certainly was," Meg shot good-naturedly over her shoulder, before turning back to smile at her once more. "We don't blame you, really, Christine. We've just been so worried about you, and we're _so_ glad that you're back. I can still hardly believe it myself."

She saw Carlotta nod at the corner of her sight, and also managed to see that the Spanish girl's eyes were suddenly overly bright, and she was blinking more than was usual for her, and also biting her lip. She still felt overwhelmed by their joy and thankfulness that she was back with them, and the happiness written plain upon their…their faces?

Carefully, so as not to excite their alarm, she sat up in her bed, her _own_ bed once more, pulling her arms, clad in her _own_ nightgown, from under the mountain of blankets so that they rested on top of the fabric, and stared as disguisedly as she could at them. She had thought when she first woke that her friends were tired, but now that she was more fully aware she could see that there was more in them than mere fatigue – there was a strength in all three that had most certainly not been there before, not even in Carlotta; a strength which came from a deep, delving exhaustion, and the courage with which it was being faced.

_What is this? _she wondered, even as she saw that timid little Cecile Jammes stood taller and with more confidence than she ever had before, as if she were challenging the whole world that railed against her, and Carlotta walked as if she were heavy with the weight of both knowledge and the dignity with which she prevented that self-same knowledge from crushing her, and Meg…it was as if Meg's beautiful blue eyes were frozen dams, concealing something deep and mysterious and unknown.

Would anyone else notice this? She doubted it. Had it not been for her own spell down…down there, she didn't think that she herself would have noticed. But, unmistakably, just as she knew that she had been changed and warped, so had they, in their own way.

_What has happened while I was gone?_

"Meg…" she began, but before she could continue Meg hastily leant forward and placed a finger on her lips, stilling them. "Don't speak more than you have to. You're still very weak. If I looked half as bad as you do, I'd want to sleep the rest of the week away!"

"I don't feel tired. Not very, any way," she protested. _They act as if spending a sojourn in the Land of the Dead is like catching a fever! But they mean well. _"I don't want to get up, at least not yet. I wouldn't be able to anyway. But I _would_ like to see Raoul. Please, do not keep him away, if he wishes to see me."

The three girls – _Women, _she hastily amended, _they're women now, all three of them – _looked at each other, before Meg sighed and nodded. "You're right, of course. We shouldn't keep him from you, after everything that's happened. Call him in, Cecile." As the maid hurried over to the door adjoining to her own room, she added for her benefit, "Raoul's been…hiding in my room, I'm afraid. He can't risk anyone seeing him at the moment."

"What? Why?" Despite what she had said, she did feel rather tired after all, but she wasn't going to let them see that. Even as she spoke, her old fears were already coming back, flooding into even this bright, sunny room. If something had already happened to change her friends, then…had something happened to Raoul, too? And what _had_ happened?

"You will see, in time." To her complete and utter amazement, Carlotta suddenly bent down over her and threw her arms around her, hugging her tight to her sweet smelling form, more tightly than she was really comfortable with, though she wasn't nearly spiteful enough to say so, and so instead tried not to whimper.

"I am more glad than I can say that you are back, and safe," the Spanish girl – _woman _– muttered in her ear, before gently releasing her. "We will give you five minutes with him. Five minutes, that is all. Then you must sleep."

"What Carlotta says is true, Christine," Meg said as she hugged her as well, more gently this time. "You need your strength. You're still as pale as…as pale as snow," she corrected herself hastily, causing her to wonder at the sudden change in vocabulary.

And then there came a voice from the doorway to her right. "Christine?" All dark thoughts that were growing were banished from her mind at the sound of that voice and as she swivelled around in her bed to eagerly find the source, her heart filled with glowing sunshine as she heard _his _voice, her beloved, that beloved…

"Raoul?"

Her voice hardly seemed her own. She certainly hadn't thought she could speak, as she stared at the figure standing in the door way, holding on to the frame for support, the sun light shining full upon his face, and almost shining through his pale skin, his hair. _How can this be?_

"Raoul?" she repeated weakly, pushing herself upwards again, still staring, thinking that it _had_ to be some trick of the light, some joke on their part, though a joke in very bad taste! But then she remembered her fleeting glimpse of all four of them, and their faces, arrayed to greet her, before she had passed out, and she knew that this was no joke, just as the difference in her friends was no mistake or trick of the eye. "Raoul, is that you?"

"Yes, it is me, Christine." Even his voice sounded drained of all colour and life, as he pushed himself forward into the room, and made his way slowly towards the bed.

She hardly heard Carlotta say, "Five minutes, remember, Raoul," as the other three made their own way out of the room. She hardly noticed their glances of compassion after him, before they shut the door. She could only gaze as Raoul finally stopped at her bed side, and went down on one knee beside it, bringing his face closer to hers, and letting the sunlight shine fully through his hair.

_His **hair**…_

The only thing she could think to do was to raise her hand to stroke the silken strands, and the only thing she could think to say was, "Your poor, beautiful hair…"

At once Raoul smiled, and a little life seemed to come back to his face, as he stroked her own curls in return, his cool finger tips bringing relief to her creased brow. "Is that _really_ all that is worrying you? After all that has happened? My _hair?_" His hand captured hers, and pressed it tenderly, as his lips curled further into a warm smile she remembered, however watered down it might now be. "Be assured that I will not remain looking as if I have had a rather nasty fright for much longer. Carlotta is going to drag me off to her room after this; she is confident that she will have a hair dye that will match my old hair colour, and therefore deflect suspicion. Personally I am not all that optimistic, but after all, hope springs eternal." He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it gently.

Hearing his voice with some humour was all that she ever could have wished for, but she simply could not let the matter rest. By the look of him it seemed that decades had been taken off his life, and considering the method with which he had managed to retrieve her she suspected that this was not so far from the truth. "Do you think that it will turn back, eventually?" she ventured tentatively.

At once she cursed herself for speaking, since all the joy drained from her fiancée's face, to be replaced with the deadly exhaustion he had worn upon him like a shroud when he had first entered the room, try as he might to disguise it. "Probably not," he said softly, lowering her hand, though not releasing it. "It's not just my hair; I feel so dreadfully _tired_, and not just from staying up all night and most of the day before it. Hopefully my strength will come back, eventually, but I'm fairly resigned to the prospect that my hair will stay white, come what may."

_This is all because of me, _she thought miserably. She could hardly bear it.

"Oh, Raoul." She brought her other hand up to his face, feeling the stubble of the hairs beginning to grow through, and was more than a little frightened to feel how cold his skin was. "Raoul, I am so, _so _sorry. This is my fault, it's all my fault."

"_No."_ Abruptly his hand tightened on hers, to make her wince, as his eyes gazed imploringly at her. "Christine, do not blame yourself. _None_ of this was your fault. You could not have known what would happen when you chose to go riding the day before yesterday, so do not condemn yourself for something you had no control over."

"But, Raoul-" But she baulked at the thought of telling him just _how _she had caused her own abduction, and her own cowardice allowed Raoul to continue without interruption.

"I chose to do what I did willingly, and I do not regret the results. To have you back is worth my own lifeblood, and I would have given it freely, to bring you back to the world of the living. We all knew the risks, all of us, and we may all have paid a price, but all of us know that it is worth it, more than worth it, to have saved you."

_Oh, Raoul, my dear, my own, I am _not_ worth it._

But she said nothing to combat his words. To do so would be to undermine all that he had given up for her, and all that her friends had done for her. And they had done so much for her already. So she smiled up at him, and with all her heart wished that what he said was true.

"I am blessed indeed, to have you, Raoul, though you need not give up your blood for me _just_ yet. When I was in the Land of the Dead, I thought of little else of you, and how to get back to you." _Well, it _is_ the truth._ "To never see you again…that thought was unbearable to me. Sometimes, I think that it was my love for you, and yours for me, which kept me sane."

"What?" At once Raoul let go of her hand and instead held her face in both his hands, cradling her head tenderly, like a father gently questioning his child. "What happened?" His forehead creased as he frowned. "Did that…" He seemed to think better of the word he was about to use, and settled on another. "Did that monster hurt you?"

_Monster? Erik? _She stared at him, her mind rebelling against this description. _He isn't a monster…he is many things, but he is _not_ a monster…_

"No," she managed to blurt out. "He didn't." _In fact, the last time he touched me properly, he was embracing me, in his bed…_She gulped at that thought, but Raoul obviously did not discern its true meaning, as his fingers clutched her face in distress. "Do you truly mean that, Christine? If that _creature_ harmed you in any way, I swear I'll-"

"Raoul, please! I mean it when I say that Erik has never harmed me!" _At least not intentionally. _"I truly mean it!" she protested, when she saw his face was still full of suspicion. "All the time I was with him, even when he was angry or even furious, he treated me with nothing but respect and courtesy!" _Which is also true. Even if he had rather odd ways of showing it…_

Raoul nodded slowly, but he looked less than convinced. "I feared the worst, when I saw you disappear at the ball. You looked so miserable, I was sure he was mistreating you-"

"Oh, Raoul, I wish you wouldn't talk about him like that, as if he was something less than human." It was too late to take those words back, and already she regretted them, as she saw the look on his face.

"Christine, he _kidnapped_ you! He held you captive under the earth! From what Nadir said-"

"I know!" she snapped, and only recovered herself slowly. More gently, reaching up to stroke Raoul's face, ridiculously imagining he might be about to cry. "Raoul, I _know_ that he did all of those things. But you _must _understand. Erik is just as much a man as you are, and just as much deserving of pity. You don't know what his life was like; or his death either."

_You don't know what your family did to him…or at least, I _pray _that you don't know. _

"But I know, Raoul," she went on stolidly, "because he told me. He told me so much, in his home under the ground, under the earth, in the Land of the Dead. He showed me things no living person should see, that no living person should be _able _to see." By now Raoul was leaning forward, clearly half-fascinated despite himself. "He gave me back my voice, Raoul – my true voice, not the weak instrument I kept in my throat ever since _Fader _died. He showed me his soul, Raoul, and everything in it. He knelt before me, and worshipped me, and shed tears and kissed my feet, and I stroked his tears away. How can I call him a monster after that?"

"And how," Raoul said softly, surprising her by the sad tenderness in his voice, as he rested his chin upon his palm and his elbow on her blankets, "how can I compare to that? I will take your word for it, Christine, as well as your protestations of how you feel for him." He turned his eyes away from her.

"Raoul!" She reached for his face, drawing him back to her. "Raoul, even if he showed me more than this whole mortal world could hold, do you think that he could eclipse _you? _God, Raoul, I pitied him, but I know that he filled me with terror and horror as well as amazement and wonder. At first I feared him for himself, and later I was terribly, dreadfully afraid not because of him, but because of his love for me. It terrified me!" she whispered, drawing him closer. "Hear this, because I will tell you and no other, Raoul. He placed his soul and his love before me in his adoration, and it terrified me beyond all measure. I knew that I was wilted under the fire and the force of his passion. It would have consumed and destroyed me, but for you." She wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled his head down upon her breast, placing his ear above her heart. "Erik gave me my voice back, it is true, Raoul. But it is _you _who made me want to live again."

There was a sigh, of contentment, of relief, and of joy. "Christine…I love you so. I care not who thinks it, I love you so." Raoul pushed himself gently off her, his eyes once more meeting his own. The sunlight shone upon his hair, and it was as if he was glowing, shining with his own, beautiful light. "Now you are back with me, I will never let you leave me again. I will protect you with my own life, I swear it. Apart from that, I have relatively little to offer. But please, just remember, whatever happens to us, I _love_ you. All I ask of you, all I ask, is that you say you love me. I don't want you to prove your love, your devotion, because I know your heart." Now his white hair pooled around her, matching the pillow, as he leaned over her as she lay back against the sheets. "That's all I ask of you."

She sighed in peace, closing her eyes, dazzled by her angelic lover. "I love you, Raoul. I love you so."

She felt his lips brush her cheek – a chaste, modest kiss, but one filled with the simplest tenderness – before he drew back, with reluctance. "I must go now, or otherwise Meg and Carlotta will probably drag me out of here by my hair." He smiled ruefully. "I do think they have the right idea, though, you must rest now. We all must. As soon as I've taken a look at Carlotta's hair dyes…"

_Sleep? How can I sleep? _Once again she remembered her nightmares. She doubted that, if she closed her eyes in slumber, she would go back to that warm, comforting place she had visited when she had first passed out. As if her memory was completing her experiences, like the finishing attraction of a portrait gallery, the eyes were coming back to her – those yellow eyes…

"How can you think of _sleep_?"

Raoul looked at her, his eyes rich with love. "You do not need to fear, Christine. The darkness is gone, forever. Erik cannot touch you any longer, neither in your waking nor in your sleeping." He reached forward, and stroked her cheek. "He is dead, Christine, and now he is gone. He's _gone_."

When Raoul had gone, and Cecile had closed the curtains in his wake – "To help you sleep better, Mademoiselle," – Christine lay in her own bed, in her own nightgown, and stared up at her own canopy.

_Am I dreaming? This seems too good to be true. Was my time down there all a dream as well?_

No – she could never have dreamed those eyes, never.

She was home. Her friends were around her. They had worked so hard to rescue her. Raoul, poor dear Raoul, had given up so much for her. She was safe. She was free. And yet…

_He will never let me go. He _will _come after me. I know he will. And what will happen then? When he finds me again? When I have abandoned him?_

_I…I was so happy at first, but now, I...what can I do? What _can_ I do?_

She looked over at the mirror on the dresser, but someone had turned it to the wall, showing only the rejection of its wooden back. Perhaps that was a blessing, perhaps not. She wondered idly who had done it.

She wrapped her arms around herself, and shivered. Even with so many blankets upon her, she was still cold. Just like Raoul, she did not think if she could ever get rid of the coldness of the mirror, and the images that flooded through her mind whenever she thought of it, and the one who lay beyond the silvery tunnel.

Raoul was so brave, and so sure, and so it was all the more sad that he was so very, very wrong.

Erik was dead, it was true; but she knew more surely than any other living creature that he was not gone.

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Once again, attribute the fact that this chapter is relatively short to shock. Shock; is there any problem it _can't _solve? (Not my shock, of course. Christine's. Well, what did you _think _I meant?)**

**Yep, gooiness for the R/C lovers, as well as ammunition to pepper at the E/C shippers. Moo ha ha. I'm just so evil, aren't I? Also, weren't expecting the hair dye to crop up again, were you? Didn't think you were. Gosh darn, I _love_ keeping the public on their toes!**

**Anything else? No, that's probably it. All I can say is, the chapters might be coming more frequently than before, now that I don't have any more pressing reading to do. I love my dad very much, but the last few weeks were _not fun. _Guess that's what they call tough love. Extremely tough love, in my case.**

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Reviews for the half Irish seamstress!**


	45. If music be the food of love

**Disclaimer: I own little if nothing in this chapter, except one or two ideas which shall be revealed.**

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Before we get this chapter started, I feel I should say something, if only to reassure all you poor little Erik lovers out there that are hanging on my every word, frantically comparing Phantom with Corpse Bride, most specifically the endings, putting two and two together, and officially declaring a state of emergency. Also, I happen to be fond of my pretty little white neck (so elegant, like a slender block of finest marble – yeah, right) since I bruise _very _easily I don't want someone to add a lasso to it as an unwanted accessory. You Erik phans are such little _tykes_! (And slightly scary, no offence meant whatsoever.) So, to alleviate your various fears about how my story is going to end:**

**Erik is _not_ going to melt into butterflies, _or_ moths, _or_ rats, or any other sort of living creature that goes around in groups that can disperse prettily that you can think of. And _yes_, that goes for dead creatures as well.**

**Hah! I put my tongue out cheekily at all you Punjab lasso toting Erik phans. Or _not_, because I like my tongue and don't want to have it yanked out by a well-cast cat gut. Apart from anything else, _ooowww._**

**So, enjoy more Carlotta stuff. And fluff. And dare I say – _self-revelation?_**

**I dared.**

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…**It bears a sickening resemblance to the description one human writer made of Heaven; "the regions where there is only life and therefore all that is not music is silence."**

**The Screwtape Letters: Letters from a senior to a junior devil _by _C.S. Lewis**

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If music be the food of love

The silent halls were filled with echoes, as Carlotta made her way throughout the quiet mansion. She found herself concentrating on the constant sound of shoe striking floor, shoe striking floor, over and over again, whether the aforesaid floor was made of wood or occasionally of stone. The echo carried more when it was of stone, since in such circumstances the rooms were notably larger than when the floor was crafted out of whatever expensive wood the de Chagny family had seen fit to purchase.

She wondered why she was noticing this now, when she had been walking to the music room every day for the last few weeks at roughly this time in the morning, perhaps a little earlier, without noticing anything of the sort, or caring whether she made a noise or not. She reasoned that it was probably because it was the first time the household had been this full, the rooms full of exhausted guests, sleeping in after the extravagance of the night before, or preparing to sleep in after actually getting back to their rooms. Certainly creeping along to her chamber with Raoul in order to attempt to fix his hair had been an adventure she could well have done without, considering that there were still drunken ball guests being helped to their own rooms by obliging servants. Even a week ago they could have avoided anyone seeing them by ducking into any room to escape detection, confident of it being empty; today they had had to be exceptionally quick on their feet, casting glances up and down a corridor before they had hurried along it, and retreating if they heard so much as a footstep coming in their direction, from any angle. It had been a relief when they had finally made it to her room, and could breathe in relief when they turned the key in the lock.

She could not help looking down at her fingers, mostly hidden by the bundle of sheet music she held tightly in her arms. Really, this was more than she could get through in a whole morning, but the solid, familiar weight of her old friends comforted her. Here, held safe in her embrace, were some of her most prized music sheets, the pieces which she had grown up playing and practicing until she knew them as she knew her own soul; brought all the way from Spain, since she was truly unable to leave them behind, and carried in her personal luggage all the way from the boat which had first brought her to France. Here were three caprices for piano by Juan Crisóstomo Arriaga, the 'Spanish Mozart' whom she had always idolised, wishing fervently that she was as much a prodigy as he had been. There were pieces by Mozart and by Beethoven, there was music by Bach for the harpsichord and the organ, which she treasured even though she knew she would probably never gain access to the latter instrument. She treasured _all_ her precious manuscripts, each spurring her on to new heights, and most of all she treasured what lay hidden within them.

For now, though, they simply served to hide her dye stained fingers. After Raoul had left, his hair satisfactorily dyed to escape comment and his scalp burning from the hot water she had used to rid the skin of his head from the dye, she had turned her attention to her own fingers, scrubbing and scrubbing with hot water until she gave it up in defeat. The dye stuck to the tips of her fingers like a curse, a curse that could not be shucked off but remained.

_That's stupid, _she thought crossly, as she made her way along the corridor nearing the music room. _We didn't do anything wrong. Why should we? We got Christine back. We did what we had to do. Raoul's hair turned white, but we've solved that. We did what we had to do. That's all._

_So why do I feel so terrible?_

It was probably because she was so tired. When was the last time she had slept? Cecile had woken her up extremely early yesterday morning…she hadn't slept in over a day, a day and a half! No wonder she felt exhausted!

But…was this feeling exhaustion? Was exhaustion the same as feeling as if she had swallowed something bitter, that had coated her throat and traveled down to her stomach, lodging there? It was not a nice feeling, but it did give her some semblance of strength, powering her to move onwards, and taking away the ability for sleep to come. Exhaustion made you want to sleep; it didn't take that self-same sleep away from you, as far as she knew.

Well, some music would soon sort that out! She would play and play until she became tired, even if that took all day and her fingers and hands ached! Maybe if she worked them really hard, the dye would come off. It was worth hoping for.

Finally, at long last, she came to the door of the music room, and unlocked it with the key she had been given by Comte Phillipe the Elder, when it became obvious how much time she would wish to spend in the chamber; pushing it open with her free hand, holding the bundle of papers to her with the other, and stepping forwards into the shadows of the room.

It was dark in the room, since the heavy velvet drapes were drawn across the windows and blocking out the sunlight to protect the instruments, but that was no obstacle to _her,_ since she had memorised the layout of the room long ago, while becoming familiar with its contents. Fifteen steps forward into the room and she was able to place her bundle of papers on top of the covered piano; seven steps to the left and she found the drape and pulled it back, letting the weak winter sun spill into the room, more and more as she opened more of the curtains along the room, until finally the sun shone in at every window. That was good; she had been walking along in half darkness for much of her way there – it was still too early for the servants to light many of the lamps in the rest of the house.

She sighed in happiness as she walked back to the grand piano, placed her music on a special little table beside the bench, and began to pull the heavy cover off the instrument. She loved this room. It was her favourite chamber in the whole mansion. The person who had designed the place had evidently shared her love for music and appreciation of an attractive place in which to arrange musical instruments, and so had created a glorious setting for both instrument and performer. Carrying the theme of nature even further than had been done so in some of the other rooms, when first stepping into the music room you could easily believe that the floor was made from green turf, the walls from the trunks of living trees, and the ceiling from a canopy of branches – until you looked closer, and saw that they were all just clever effects worked with stone and wood and plaster. In Carlotta's opinion this didn't detract from the beauty of the room at all. She enjoyed playing while being speckled with light from the many narrow windows, looking like gaps between the trees for the sunlight to stream into this sizeable copse, even if it managed to look normal from the outside of the building. She loved walking across the floor and imagining she was walking through a woodland glade, even if the effect was slightly spoiled by the sound of her feet upon stone – the designer obviously hadn't been able to do everything when fulfilling the demands made of him. And she felt happier playing to an audience of trees rather than to humans. Trees, she felt, were far better than people in some ways. She really missed the trees back in Spain. Sometimes her family would go to the orange groves further south in the country, and collect oranges, or rather wait for them to fall off the trees, since they were so ripe. There would be competitions between the sisters to see who could gather the most fruits in a small space of time. Oddly, despite the competitiveness of the two older daughters, it was usually Katherine who managed to obtain the most, holding them proudly in her pinafore like a hunter bringing home a lion's head.

No matter now, no matter. She hadn't come here to remember, she had come here to play. She climbed onto the dais the piano was stationed on, which looked more like a grassy mound, but elegantly so, and sat down at the stool, looking down at the ivory keys. Set against their whiteness, it was even more obvious how darkened her finger tips had become. She winced, and at once set off into multitudes of scales, determinedly warming up, and warming up further. She allowed herself to sink into the familiarity of the exercises, bringing that tiniest little bit of her childhood into this large, mostly empty room, cool despite its beauty, set in this ravishing, slightly decadent mansion.

Finally she felt she had warmed herself up enough; but she didn't feel like practicing anything ordinary today. However, what she had in mind was usually kept for the very early morning, when there were little if no people around. Now the servants were up and about, tending to their duties, and might well hear her…

…but then again, this room was far out of the way of the business of the household. Everyone knew not to disturb her; this was an acknowledged time for her and her alone. All the guests were still asleep, and would probably sleep into the noon. Even if the servants heard, they wouldn't think anything of it.

She made her decision, and reaching down carefully slid a sizable sheaf of papers from the middle of the mound of sheet music. She smiled softly as she read the words she had written much earlier on the top sheet: _'The Two Sisters'._

Carlotta Gudicelli had a secret. It wasn't any ordinary secret, like Rocío's stupid crushes on various boys. It was a secret she had had for a while, now, ever since one of her French relatives, she had forgotten which, had taken her to the opera in Paris to see _Faust_. The Spanish girl had instantly dropped the sulking fit she had been preparing, and had stared in wonder and delight as Mephistopheles had made his bargain with Faust, as the drinking soldiers had sung out their choruses with gusto, as Marguerite had admired the jewels given to her and as Faust was finally dragged off to Hell, where he belonged. When the curtain call came, her applause had been among the loudest. Such was her enthusiasm she had had to be taken back two nights later, this time to see _The Marriage of Figaro. _Even if she had had to follow the words on the program she had been given, this did not detract from her appreciation of the performance one bit.

Most of all she had admired the sopranos, and the beauty of their voices, and the pitch of the notes they could hit. In her heart she longed to be set among the great singers of the opera, but realistically she knew that this could never be. She had no illusions about the condition of her voice. While her fingers had a gift, her vocal chords most certainly did not so, and years of singing lessons had only served to make her voice ordinary. No, she would _never_ be a star on the stage.

But that didn't mean that she could not harbor other grand designs concerning the stage. And here was the result of it – her secret. This opera would be nothing like the _zarzuelas_ of her homeland, adequate enough in her own country but nothing compared to the operas of France, of Italy and Austria! Every time she worked upon it thrills of excitement would rush through her, as she considered how best to compose the next piece of music for her idea of the tragic story of two sisters, shut up in a chamber of the Alhambra, the gorgeous Moorish palace in the city of Granada, and slowly wasting away from sorrow at seeing various couples in love outside their chamber, and knowing that they themselves would never find that selfsame love. When she had visited the palace with her family, Rocío had predictably 'swooned' at the relative sadness of the supposed legend related to them by their guide, but she had been more intrigued than touched. Was it truly possible to waste away from the lack of a mate, she had wondered. Did a person need love to survive? She doubted it, but it made for a good story as far as she was concerned, even if it was based on nothing more than a fanciful myth. Wasn't everything, in the end?

She searched through the sheets to the piece she was working on at the moment, an aria for the younger of the two sisters, who still retained some form of hope that one day the situation would change, and therefore still had some positive passion in her. Unlike her elder sister whose main song, Carlotta had already decided, would probably be _'Mi ventana hace señas, pero el exterior de mundo me había abandonado_(_My window beckons, but the world outside had abandoned me)', _the younger of the two would boldly and beautifully sing _'Soy joven, soy hermoso, pero estoy en cadenas(I am young, I am beautiful, and yet I am in chains),' _although as time would pass she might well sink into the lethargy which had claimed her older sibling. Still, she_ might_ be generous, and allow them to escape from their prison – but this was most likely going to be a tragedy, so probably not.

_Let me see, now…_She tapped the paper with a thoughtful finger, then tapped her lips with her other hand. A soaring violin primarily, perhaps, to accompany the young princess, underlined by the theme of the lute that would permeate much of the music in this work, emphasizing the Moorish world of the dream-like palace the story was set in. Or perhaps a viola? No, a violin would be perfect for the sweet voiced soprano that must surely play this beautiful, innocent maiden.

She allowed herself a hidden smile. Ever since she had first heard Christine sing, the night that she had arrived, she had known that here was the inspiration she needed for her main heroine. She had dreamed that _Christine_ might be the one to stand upon the stage and sing out the lines that been had written and composed for her, her beauty astonishing all and sundry, and her voice carrying away the souls of all who heard her…but she knew that that could never be. For one thing, she seriously doubted she would ever show this to _anyone, _let alone try to get it performed – it was mostly to show that she _could _do something, and who would fund the work of an unknown Spanish girl? For another, Christine would be married three days from now, and any prospect of her making a career in music would be over; and in any case, she knew that Christine sang nowhere near as well as she might be able to, even though her voice was exceptionally pleasing to hear.

_Never mind…_

She considered, then picked up the pen she had brought with her, dipped it into the ink well she had hidden under the piano covers a few visits ago, and scribbled:

_Marjahna: He venido de edad, y siento las punzadas de desear en mi corazón y en mi cabeza. El mundo de la luz del sol dice en voz alta a mí; Duelo para encontrar una juventud de oro mis el propios. Soy joven, y soy hermoso; mi belleza chamusca los espejos, ellos grita hacia fuera para la relevación. Debo aprender sobre amor y maneras amorosas, sino que por el contrario me sostienen en cadenas de la piedra, en una prisión hermosa de la luz manchada. ¡Mayo el quién me atrapó aquí se maldiga!_

She thought _'maldiga_' was a bit strong, but decided to leave it in for the moment; she could always cross it out later, if such was her desire. Now, to set up a tempo for it. She tapped the pen on the side of the piano – carefully, of course, she didn't want to damage the beautiful instrument – searching for the right rhythm to set the words to.

"What are you doing, _signorina_?"

_Dio! _She dropped the pen in her shock, and swivelled around on her seat, to find the harlequin from last night, dressed in far more ordinary clothes than before, well cut and fashionable, seated comfortably with one ankle upon the other knee, in what appeared to be a grassy hollow but what was in reality a well disguised chair; gazing at her with evident enjoyment.

"_Qué usted está haciendo aquí?" _she spat quickly, before realising that he would be less than likely to understand her, and switched instead to French. "I mean, what are you doing here?"

The harlequin raised a dark eyebrow, as he sat forward. "Well, _signorina, _I asked one of the servants where I might find a certain _signorina giovane_ who had slipped from my clutches at the ball last night; and what did one of them say but that you often practise your music in this very room, and I came along and opened the door to find you practising, and since you had not noticed me I made myself comfortable and waited for you to do so." He sat back again, and smiled.

Carlotta stared at him, open mouthed. His French was actually quite good, better than she had suspected from last night, but then they hadn't spent much time _talking_. She felt her cheeks flushing stupidly, and furiously turned away, pulling a lock of her hair forward to hide it.

"That really wasn't necessary," she ground out, though some extremely deep part of her was more than slightly flattered at his attention. "You'll distract me. Please, leave."

She half hoped to hear him get up and move to the door, half hoped he wouldn't and would stay, perhaps so that he could make some more comments, before she really got annoyed and ordered him away in righteous irritation. At the moment, she didn't really have any justification for her attitude.

Her odder half rejoiced when she realised that he was staying seated where he was, and a sneaking glance revealed he was now leaning forward, his chin resting on his hand, his cherubic lips turned up in a smile; but the half of her which was more prominent grew more annoyed, as she played some irritable though fluent chords.

_Just ignore him…_it was odd that all of her mind agreed with that! So she did ignore him, examining her music again, until his voice rang out once more. "What are you doing?"

"Writing," she said shortly, without looking up, and scribbled down something else just to prove her point. It was a nonsensical word that she didn't understand, but _he _didn't need to know that.

She wasn't prepared for his reaction. She was resolutely _not _looking at him, but she heard him get up off his seat, and his feet walk across the floor, his footsteps echoing across the stone. He did not say a word, either to excuse himself or to bid her farewell.

_Good. He's leaving, _she thought firmly. Now she could get on with her work in peace.

But…she began to panic, silently. Perhaps he was offended by her manner? She didn't care about that personally, but supposing that he should tell someone that she was working on something important? What if he gave away her secret? She had to work harder than ever not to look around, or to shout out as he…

He was standing _right behind her_. While she had been worrying herself sick, he had come right up behind her, and he was looking over her shoulder, at what she was writing. _That… _She forced herself not to react. That was what he wanted. Instead, she simply took the sheet off the stand, and pulled it down onto her lap, hunching over it, as if to correct something.

_Oh, please do react…_

She was rewarded by the sound of him leaning down and around her. She guessed that he had gone down on one knee beside her. She felt the brush of his fingers, unintentionally – probably - against the back of her skirts, as he grasped the bench to support himself, before bending further, to see just what was in her lap. He was entirely too close; she could feel his breath disturbing strands of her hair. This was such a breach of conduct! But a thrilling breach, she had to admit.

If he wanted to flout decorum, then so would she. Abruptly, she turned her head, and as she had expected found herself looking almost directly into his. He was very close – she had let him get _too _close. She could see a few wispy hairs on his upper lip, as well as the surprise in her eyes.

She smiled, sweetly – and then hissed sharply, mimicking a cat as she had done once or twice to scare Rocío; right in his face as well! To her delight he fell backwards, almost scrabbling to get out of the way; he fell off the dais and landed hard on the floor with _"Oof!" _as his protest. She could not help the giggle that arose as she looked down at him, sprawled on the floor beneath her, staring up at her in complete astonishment.

"If I may say so, sir, it serves you right," she said calmly. "Now, if you do not mind, I would have you-"

_Oh, **no.**_

She had suddenly noticed the absence of paper between her fingers, and looked down to see that her lap was empty of any sheet music whatsoever; looking up again in horror she saw a faint smile of triumph cross the young man's face, as he held up the beginning of her aria between his dark fingers.

"Give that back at once! It's _mine!_" At once she stood up and reached out quickly for it, but too quickly for he her had skirted out of her reach and stood up, holding the paper out of her reach. _Why, you…_She jumped off the dais and lunged out again, but again he danced out of her reach. Curses, he was actually _enjoying _this! His smile widened each time an attempt failed, and he jumped backwards, ever backwards, making for the door.

_Don't you **dare!**_

"Give…it…_back!_" she hissed again, trying to catch hold of his arm so she could hold him still and snatch back her lyrics. This corset impeded her movement too much; how she hated it! "If you don't, you are _no_ gentleman!"

"True, perhaps, but then very few ladies hiss in people's faces, and spit in their faces as well, _signorina," _the harlequin replied, wiping his face for effect.

_Oh, dear. I had better not let _that _get about. If the Comte knew that I spat in the face of one of his guests, even if I didn't mean to…_

"Fine, then. Keep it," she said shortly, abruptly ceasing her attack, much as it galled her. "Take it and leave me alone."

He looked surprised. "You would give it up just like that?"

"It is no great loss," she said, deceptively blithely. "I can always write others. Besides, it isn't as if _you_ could read it, anyway."

It was intensely enjoyable, after all her discomfort and irritation, to see his smiling face crease into a frown. Obviously he had been expecting more of a challenge from her. _Serves you right. I won't waste my time with you. _She was turning away when he spoke again; "_Signorina,_ let us make a deal. If you tell me what you have written here, then I will give this piece of paper back to you."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because it is a great loss to you," was his answer. "Because it galls you to have to relinquish your possessions. Because you are very protective of this…this aria, I believe it is. Because your pride has been wounded, and here is a chance to heal it."

He was right. _Why _did he have to be right? She pretended to consider, but really he had made her mind up for her. "Very well," she muttered, walking forwards and coming around to the side of him, looking down at the words she had written not five minutes before, translating them in her head even as she looked at them. Placing a finger under them and moving it along for his benefit, she spoke:

"_I have come of age, and I feel the pangs of longing in my heart and in my head. The world of sun light calls out to me; I ache to find a golden youth of my own. I am young, and I am beautiful; my beauty scorches the mirrors, they cry out for relief. I should be learning about love and amorous ways, but instead I am held in chains of stone, in a beautiful prison of speckled light. May the one who trapped me here be cursed!"_

She hadn't believed the words were particularly suggestive when she had written them, but by the time she had finished speaking she was blushing again. She pulled the paper out of his unresisting fingers, and walked quietly back to the piano.

_I feel like such a fool. I _can't _do this. It's all stupid anyway. _She savagely stuffed the aria back onto the stand, and sat down again, heavily.

_Just, go away._

"Signorina Gudicelli?"

"Yes?" she replied listlessly, without looking around at first; but a step towards her did make her turn around. Her harlequin was slowly coming closer, some of his brashness gone, and looking much the better for it.

"My name is Ubaldo Piangi. I am sorry I did not introduce myself to you earlier. Would you please play some of your work for me?"

Carlotta suddenly felt exhausted, as if she had come to the end of a very long flight of stairs, but more exhilarated than she had done for a long while, as she turned back to the keys and replied primly, "We shall see."

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Carlotta has probably become one of my favourite characters while writing this; I don't know why, exactly. When I started this story I included her on a whim, because I wanted more links to the original Phantom of the Opera as opposed to Corpse Bride, and I thought Carlotta would be a good one; also I wanted to practise the Spanish I had learnt even after I had finished doing it as a GCSE, and the diva seemed the perfect outlet for that desire. (I gave up not long after that – all the Spanish you see this chapter was done on a translator, so don't blame _me_ if it's bad, blame my computer, though to my admittedly rusty eye – _rusty eye_, hee hee; I'm so odd! – it looks adequate, though perhaps not perfect for the opera.) Originally she was very much a secondary character, and I wasn't even sure at the beginning if she was going to be clued in on the events surrounding Christine's disappearance, but very quickly she grew on me and as a result I promoted her to a main character – you can tell which characters in this are main ones, I find, judging by how many chapters, or bits of chapters, they get to illustrate their point of view, discounting the massive amounts dedicated to E, C and to a lesser extent R. On second thoughts, I think I _do_ know why she's become a favourite with me. It's such great fun to write from her point of view, because even though she's kind-hearted and capable of great love she _is_ a bit of a snob, and very proud and self-conscious of her own faults at the same time, though trying to deny it; complete with a _bit_ of a temper. Lots of authors say that at least one character in whatever book they're plugging at the time is based on them, like Diana Wynne Jones says Sophie in 'Howl's Moving Castle' is based on her and the feelings she had while recovering from an illness; I think that pretty much fits me and Carlotta, since she reflects my greatest faults, as well as (I hope) my greatest strengths.**

**It is for this reason that I put in that little excerpt about her hissing like a cat in Piangi's face. Having a boy lurking over your shoulder and practically into you, watching what you do: annoying. Looking around straight into his face, and smiling sweetly: deceiving. Hissing right in the aforesaid face: potentially ostracizing.**

**The sight of the previously aforesaid face as he stumbles backwards to get away from you? _Priceless._**

**(What am I, a slab of raw meat or what? I'm going to go with _or what. _And I _don't _like being sniffed.) **

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Notes on the music (see, I did _research!_): No, as far as I know, there _isn't _an opera called 'The Two Sisters', and you wouldn't find me trying to write the music for it if there was. The lyrics, perhaps, but not the music. I'm a Gilbert, not a Sullivan. Look that up if you don't know what it means, and please, I beg you, check out 'The Mikado'. Who needs 'Madame Butterfly' and her naval chap when you can have Yum-yum and Nanki-Poo? (I _swear_ I'm not making that up, by the way.)**

**Juan Crisóstomo Arriaga was a Spanish composer, in case you hadn't guessed from the name, and lived from 1806 to 1826, dying aged 19 – you can see where he got the nickname from. He was also a child prodigy and an extremely gifted composer, and - get _this_ – he was born on what would have been Mozart's fiftieth birthday! _Oooer!_ Maybe, if you believe in reincarnation, that would mean something? Then again, maybe not.**

**Zarzuela is a type of Spanish opera that went through a bit of a revamp after 1868, when the Glorious Revolution took place and the people deposed Queen Isabella II. Before this zarzuela tried to escape from French and Italian cultural influence, which it had been relying on, and develop its own distinctive style; the main difference were there were some spoken scenes, unlike other forms of opera. After 1868 lots of people couldn't afford to go to grand productions, so they were made cheaper to attend, and zarzuelas of different lengths were composed, some lasting only an hour, others lasting up to four hours. I've decided (finally!) that this story is set in round about the late 1860s, or thereabouts, so zarzuelas haven't reached their full potential yet, and as a result Carlotta is more likely to be impressed by the grander French and Italian operas.**

**Also, the version of _Faust _that's featured in Phantom of the Opera became a hit in 1862, but wasn't performed at the Grand Opera until 1869, when a ballet scene was added. Let's adapt that, shall we?**

'**The Hall of the Two Sisters' in the Alhambra in Granada is supposedly named after the aforementioned sisters who wasted away in there, but really it's named after two beautiful white slabs of marble set into the floor. Such a pity, because it's such a good story. Oh well, at least there's that one about the 'Hall of the ****Abencerrages****' where the last king of Granada invited some chieftains to a banquet and killed them, and the water in the fountains there still runs red… **

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress, please! (And I'm sewing again! At last, the piece I've been working on for over two years is DONE! I'm so happy! I think I'm going to cry.)**


	46. Repercussions

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Thankfully, considering the content of this chapter.**

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I am on a _roll. _I love the holidays _so _much. Especially when I don't have any work to do.**

**Well, when I say work, I mean _pressing _work.**

**This chapter is dedicated to Mominator, for having some interesting ideas about what exactly would happen to Carlotta after having taken part in a dread, arcane ceremony and tasting of forbidden fruit (hem, hem), and for being quite near the mark, I feel, though not _right_ on target. Also, she wields the Punjab Frying PanTM. **

**(You are one _strange_ monkey, Barb.)**

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Shylock: Go with me to a notary, seal me there**

**Your single bond; and, in a merry sport,**

**If you repay me not on such a day,**

**In such a place, such sum or sums as are**

**Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit**

**Be nominated for an equal pound**

**Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken**

**In what part of your body pleaseth me.**

**The Merchant of Venice, Act I Scene III, _by _William Shakespeare**

'**I am willing,' said the little mermaid. She was now as pale as death.**

'**But I want my payment too,' said the witch, 'and it's not a small one either. You have the most beautiful voice of anyone here in the sea. You think that you'll be able to charm him with it, but you're going to give that voice to me. The price of my precious drink is the finest thing you possess. For I shall have to put some of my own blood into it, to make it as sharp as a two edged sword.'**

'**But if you take my voice', said the little mermaid, 'what shall I have left?'**

'**Your beauty,' said the witch, 'your grace in moving, your lovely, speaking eyes – with these you can easily catch a human heart. Well, have you lost your courage? Put out your little tongue; I'll cut it off as my payment, and you shall have the magic drink.'**

**The Little Mermaid, _by _Hans Christian Anderson, _translated by _Naomi Lewis. **

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Repercussions

It was an extremely depleted gathering that had made their way to the main dining room in the de Chagny mansion, crafted of sumptuous black stone veined with pearl white, for the customary evening meal, despite the large numbers of guests lodged in the many various rooms of the mansion. Christine, it had been learned, had had a small relapse of her weakness, meaning that she would of course be attended in her room by her own maid, and Raoul appeared to be too exhausted to make it down to the dinner table after his exuberance of the night before; a tremendous breach of manners, but the elders of the family were willing to overlook the digression of their golden boy, so soon before his wedding. Madame Giry too had made her excuses, as she pleaded weariness and fatigue after her night of dancing with Comte Philippe the Younger, who was apparently less than pleased at her absence, though he said nothing on the subject.

Genevieve was secretly relieved, though she mourned the loss of Madame Giry in particular, being an extremely interesting conversationalist as she was. Nevertheless she much preferred more private meals; and more private places in general. The masquerade ball last night was…something she could well have done without. If her dear Bernard had not persuaded her, she would have abstained from _this_ dinner as well, and simply have had one of the maids bring her a discreet meal in her own room, next to a roaring fire, as was being done for many if not most of the guests this evening. But she could never refuse Bernard anything, and nor, for that matter, could she refuse the head of the household, though for quite different reasons; and so here she was, sitting opposite her sister, Grandpére at the head of the table, and half way through a plate of chocolate profiteroles, that she nevertheless really had no stomach for.

She found that she truly envied Carlotta, who was eating away happily further along the table. Strictly speaking this particular dinner was a family affair, but since the Spanish girl had stayed for so long, she had temporarily become an unofficial part of the household, like the Girys', which allowed her to sit in on smaller gatherings within the larger gathering of the wedding. Still, despite Genevieve's growing envy at the younger woman's enthusiastic appetite, she was glad that she was enjoying her food more now; when she had first come to the mansion she had eaten less than was healthy, proper or courteous towards her hosts. She hoped that Carlotta developed more of a liking for French food after her stay here; otherwise she might have a word to say with her guardians who were taking less than moderate care with her integration into French society.

Meg, on the other hand, sitting right next to Carlotta, was virtually picking at her dessert, something she considered a crime in everybody, even herself on this occasion, taking into account the genius of the main cook. Genevieve had _no_ idea why _she _was so morose today. The girl had seemed happy enough yesterday, eager for the ball and during the ball, though a little worried about Christine's health, which was certainly understandable. She allowed herself a little smile, if only in her mind, at the love between the two. It was more than affection between friends; it was like the love between sisters.

_Sisters…_

She turned her eyes to Celandine, picking at her plate like Meg. Her younger sister looked worse than ever this evening; her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair was lank and her cheeks looked positively sunken as she chewed slowly, as if each mouthful was painful to her. As she watched, she swallowed and raised her fork to her lips again, obviously loathing everything on her plate. Genevieve could not help but feel a pang of sympathy; but very quickly she squashed it, like an annoying fly.

She forced herself not to look at her any further, lest their eyes should meet by accident. _She deserves no sympathy. It will only weaken her resolve. She knows what she did as well as I do._

Sometimes she could not sleep at night and lay awake long after Bernard fell into a comfortable sleep, wrapped in his warm arms, gazing up at the canopy of her bed. Was it the knowledge that her sister, her own _sister, _for heavens' sakes, was an adulteress, that a bastard child begotten in sin was growing inside her, that robbed her of her sleep? Was the memory of that wretched cordial preying on her mind; was it the starkness of the choice she had imposed on sweet, _innocent_ little Celandine? Or was it…what had Celandine said, when she had first revealed the dreadful news?

"_He was kind to me – gentle. You have to have as little as I have to understand just what that means."_

Truly, it _was_ hard for her to understand it. She knew what Louis was like, but how could Celandine have lost control like that? How could she bring this potential disgrace upon the family, so soon before the wedding. She had had to do _something. _And yes, perhaps she _had_ meant to punish Celandine a little, or more than a little, for behaving so recklessly.

_She caused this whole mess. _She _needs to rectify it, or pay the consequences._

Still, as she listened to Louis talking at the head of the table, she could not resist savagely digging her fork into a particular profiterole. She could generally find something nice to say about anybody, but with Louis she drew a bit of a blank. Why did Philippe the Elder let him behave like this? Actually allowing him to bring his mistress – his _mistress, _of all people, a direct flout in Celandine's face – to the occasion of the wedding? She simply could not understand it. Then again, she could not understand a lot of what their grandfather thought these days. It disconcerted her, her and Philippe both. Who knew _what_ the old man was thinking these days?

She concentrated once more on the discussion further up the table. Louis was speaking, his mouth full.

"…and as I was just coming down for dinner, my man-servant told me that there'd been a terrific fuss in the kitchens earlier. One of the maidservants – quiet little thing, never raised a peep before, apparently – suddenly started screaming like a goose, dropped a loaded tray she'd just been given and fell to the floor, still shrieking, and writhing about in all the soup and things she'd spilled. Wouldn't calm down until they'd taken her out of the kitchens, apparently, and even then all she'd been able to say was 'fire' and 'burning'." He took another bite of his dessert.

"Do they know what was wrong with her?" Genevieve took a far greater interest in the household staff than she was strictly supposed to. She knew that Louis certainly did not share this selfsame opinion, and therefore was not so surprised when he answered, "I don't know, and I don't care. Might have ruined _this _dinner if she'd been allowed, to say nothing of messing up the meal she was supposed to take upstairs."

"Who was it? Do you know _that_?" Meg Giry had ceased eating altogether, her fork half way to her lips, as she stared up the table at Louis. He, flattered by the attention from a pretty girl, the idiot, smoothed back his moustache as he answered, almost preening himself.

"Well, Mademoiselle Giry, I believe it was Cecile…something. Yes, I've got it – Cecile Jammes, Miss. Daaé's maid."

"Mademoiselle Gudicelli? Are you well? You seem to have gone very pale. And you too, Mademoiselle Giry – or perhaps even paler," Grandpére remarked suddenly, seemingly nonchalantly, taking a sip of his pudding wine.

"I…I…" This was very odd indeed; even Celandine had woken out of her own sullen contemplation of her bowl to look at the two. Carlotta's fork had dropped from her fingers. All the enjoyment had gone out of her face; if it were at all possible, she looked faintly green. Meg, meanwhile, was paler than ever. She too had let go of her fork, to clatter into her half-full bowl, and now her fingers were digging into the table, as she stared across the table at the place where Christine would normally sit.

_What on-_

"Oh…oh, _dio, por favor…" _Carlotta quickly clapped a hand to her mouth. "_Excusé, _I must go!" Abruptly she started up, knocking her chair backwards, and fairly raced for the door of the room. Absorbed as she was in this, Genevieve could not help noticing a very odd sound echoing about the room.

"_Co-ack! **Co-ack**!" _

Almost as if Carlotta were…_coughing_ something up! Already Meg had gotten to her feet as well, her beautiful face gaunt in the candlelight. The dead set of those blue eyes were beginning to make her feel distinctly uneasy, as she realised the girl was not actually looking at the place setting, but – she twisted around in her seat to see – at the mirror, set on the far wall. Slowly, she began to realise that the reflection didn't _quite_ match the original-

"I should go after her; she may need my help." And with a rustle of skirts, Meg was gone as well.

The remaining occupants of the room were left staring at each other, non-plussed. Forgetting her policy, she even stared at Celandine.

Bernard was the first to speak: "What do you think that _that _was about?"

"Most likely little Carlotta has food poisoning again," Louis said shortly and harshly, returning his attention to his sweet. "A more finicky eater I never saw in my life."

There was another scrape of chair against stone as Celandine stood up in her turn, snidely shooting a rare glance of pure venom at her husband. "Since I have finished my meal, I believe I may well copy them, and retire. Good evening, Grandpére. _Louis. _Philippe.Berenard." She paused, before adding softly, _"Genevieve."_

Grandpére, her brother and her husband all courteously rose to bid her farewell, and so did Louis, though his eyes did not rise to meet those of his wife, who looked through him as harshly as Meg had looked through her, only a few moments ago.

And she stood as well, drawn by the subtle plea in her sister's voice. There was only so long she could ignore her. "I will accompany you, sister."

She waited until they had safely quit the dining room, and shut the door behind them, before she turned on Celandine, releasing all the tension in her frame. "What do you want now, sister?"

Celandine's eyes were bright with tears, as she blinked frantically. "I can't do this, Genevieve. God help me, I _can't _do this. I cannot take it anymore, truly I cannot."

"Hush!" She drew her away from the door, further along the corridor, before she went on, letting her irritation take over. "Do you think you can come whining and complaining to me? I have _given_ you a solution to your problems, Celandine. Is it my fault if you are too cowardly to take it?"

There was silence, as the sisters stared at each other. Genevieve herself was faintly shocked at what she had just said. But she knew why she had said it; Celandine's very skin seemed caustic to her, caustic with her sins. She _wouldn't_ be dragged down with her. This was _her_ fault, all _her_ fault. It wasn't her fault at all.

At last, Celandine breathed in a choking sigh. "I suppose it is not, Genevieve, though I wonder if that is truly you. The Genevieve of old would not treat me like this. _She_ would not-"

_No, not here, it's not safe, not here!_

"Hush! Hush!" Seizing her sister's arm, she dragged her along and along the corridors, away even further from the dining room, opening a random door and pushing her into a random, disused parlour, hardly able to see what was in it.

As soon as they were both safely in, Celandine wrenched her arm away, with surprising roughness. "I suppose it disgusts you to touch me, Genevieve. The feeling is mutual, I assure you." Her little sister blinked back bright tears, illuminated by the moon that shone faintly through the distant window, barely outlining their faces. "Why are you doing this to me, Genevieve?"

"Celandine, you committed a great sin. I am simply helping you as best I can."

"By aiding a murder? By urging me to commit a greater sin? I _know_ I did wrong, Genevieve. God knows I regret what I did, every day and night, when He punishes me through my body. But why should He punish me through _you_, sister? Why should I have _you _turn against me as well? Why didn't you give me poison instead of showing me how much you hate me now?"

"I don't _hate_ you!" The accusation hurt her more than she thought possible.

"Then why should you give me such a choice? Why should you give me the choice to…to _kill_ my baby? When we were little, you said, you said that you'd always…you'd always be as much a mother to my children as I was." Celandine shook her head savagely in the darkness. "You _lied_. Why did you lie? _Why_ did you…"

And Celandine, her precious little sister, whom she had always adored and perhaps looked upon as a fore-runner of her own babies, was in her arms, her own sin-begotten baby inside her and pressed against her in an embrace and her tears were wet upon her shoulder. She found that tears were creeping out of her eyes too, as she whispered, "I'm sorry, Celandine. I'm so, so sorry. I'm, I'm sorry, I…you're _not_ wicked. _You're_ not evil, _I'm _the evil one. You don't deserve this; you don't deserve any of this. You don't have to do this. It's your choice, but whatever you do, I _promise_ that Bernard and I will support you. If Louis turns his back on you, we'll help you" She hugged her sister closer. "We won't abandon you. I won't turn my back on you any more. You can do what you wish. Please, please forgive me, little sister. I'm sorry."

She strained to hear the words of her sister, her darling, and her tears truly began to come as she heard Celandine saying, in a dry, dead little voice, hardly aware anymore of the world around her and the life within her

"Where did it go, Genevieve? We were happy once, when we were young. We were hopeful once. We could live without fear, once. Where did it all go, Genevieve? Where did it go?"

* * *

"_Co-ack! **Co-ack**!"_

Meg concentrated as hard as she could on holding back Carlotta's long hair, as her friend voided the contents of her stomach into the wash bowl, set down beside Christine's bed by its owner. It was very hard work making sure that both of them did not collapse forward under the weight of their heavy skirts; added to that was the fact that they were both trembling like the ague, and she felt herself sweating as much as Carlotta was, little beads trickling down what she could see of her golden temples.

"_Co-ack! Co-ack!"_

The noise that Carlotta was making was not exactly helping either. It was not at all nice; it was ugly and violent and _wrong._ It sounded as if Carlotta was bringing up more than her dinner – as if she was coughing up…well, a _toad. _A live toad, that was struggling and croaking frantically all the time. She did not like to think of what such an experience must be like.

"**_Co-ack!"_**

Christine's gentle hand was on the back of her hot neck, soothing and cooling, and the other hand was helping to support poor Carlotta. It was not just her hand that was cool; despite her heat Meg longed to be near a roaring fire, if only to melt the chill away from her bones, but the fire had been damped down considerably, for some reason, meaning there was far more darkness and coolness in the room than she was comfortable with. It reminded her far too much of the black, cold, bleak dining room, and the cool candlelight, and that mirror, and what she had _seen _in it.

But that meant nothing now. She had to help Carlotta through this terrible, mysterious attack.

Finally, at long, long last, the retching coughs died away, and after a few gasps and wheezes a shaky voice whispered from beneath her, "I…I think I am done now, Meg."

"Good," she replied as firmly as she could, pulling her up once more, supporting her weight. _Why_ Carlotta had decided to rush _here_ to be sick, rather than to her own room, she had no idea, but rush here she had, letting out those odd, terrible croaks all the way; barely able to bend over the basin in time before truly _everything _had come spilling out of her mouth.

"How do you feel now?" Christine asked anxiously, kneeling down in front of her and wiping the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief, her nightgown trailing on the floor and her feet bare, since she had neglected to even put on her slippers when she had leapt out of bed to aid her struggling friend.

"I…I feel…" Carlotta sat back down heavily upon the carpet, and massaged her stomach with her still glove-clad hand, surprise of a none too pleasant kind spreading across her face. "I feel…fine."

"That's _good_, isn't it?" Christine said, more cheerful than - Meg felt certain - any of them felt, Cecile bundled up as she was on the bed since she had shakily brought up another tray of dinner included in the number, as she stood up again.

"No." Carlotta's voice was husky, and quiet, and somehow more disturbing still than her retching and coughing and croaking. "I…this has happened before, today. I was having some lunch after my music practice, and then suddenly I…I began to make those noises, and then, I was sick. Violently. My stomach did not even have time to break my food down before it happened."

Against her better sensibilities, Meg looked over into the basin at her feet, holding her nose in preparation for the smell. She was surprised, but no more reassured that Carlotta had been, to see the distinct shapes of food in the basin; bites of profiteroles and chocolate, shreds of chewed chicken and vegetables, nuts and raisins, all floating in the distinctive tint of the beef consommé they had had to begin the meal. All the food, apart from having been chewed, looked relatively unaffected, as if Carlotta's stomach hadn't even begun to digest it before rejecting it. It even lacked the customary sharp smell that so commonly accompanied nausea. It was as if the food had simply been…_refused._

"Carlotta – you can't eat anything, can you?"

There was silence behind her. "_Can_ you?" she asked cautiously, rising from her inspection of the basin, trying not to let her eyes be caught by the mirror, helplessly.

A sigh, then; more like a groan, really. "_No_. At first I thought that I might have food poisoning again, but I felt perfectly fine before and afterwards, and later on I tried to eat an apple. I had only taken a few bites before the noises came again, and I coughed the pieces up, and I could not go on. I was so happy tonight, because I thought that it had gone away, and I would be able to eat, at last. But no matter how hard I try, my…my body will _not_ let me eat. And I am so _hungry_."

In the mirror, fatally drawing her attention, she saw Carlotta put her arms around her knees, hugging herself into herself, and Christine bending down to hug her, and– _no! Not the mirror! Who turned that the right way – the _wrong _way around? _She walked quickly over to the mirror, and twisted it so hard and so fast in her desperation that the frame holding it wobbled and fell forwards, and the mirror tumbled and fell off the table and it smashed…

The crash sent her crawling backwards frantically as she fell to the floor, hard, Christine's cry of dismay ringing in her ears like a terrible echo, pulling herself away from the terrible, sharp, shining pieces reflecting her screaming face, her wide eyes, a thousand times over, stretching her face, tearing her apart piece by piece! She couldn't _stand _it; she hated it, she hated it, oh how she _hated_ it!

"Get it away! _Away!_" she hissed, desperately trying to seek a refuge from that red mouth which was her own, and those eyes which were her own, but foreign and alien and infinite, stretching her soul out thin and into oblivion – or until it snapped.

"Meg? Meg, what's the matter? Why are you doing this?" Christine grabbed her none too gently by the arms, pulled her upwards and onto her feet with some effort, staring at her. Now that all were gazing at her, now that she was upright once more and not sprawling, she felt deep, red, raw embarrassment, but not as much as the fear she still felt. She had thought, for an instant, that _he, _he might be coming…

_I _have_ to tell them. I can't keep this a secret anymore. I don't want to be alone with it anymore._

"I'm afraid of the mirror. _All_ the mirrors. They're watching me, Christine," she admitted, begrudgingly. "They're waiting for me. They're waiting to let something loose, to let something free, something that will come after _all_ of us. They…_burn_ me." She held up her fingers, still sore from the sparks that had hurt her early in the morning of the day.

Christine's brown eyes looked lost, until they hardened unexpectedly. She turned to look at Cecile, a cold compress on her face and hand where the soup she had spilled and apparently wallowed in had scalded her, her eyes still wide with the fear she had so obviously felt.

"And you, Cecile? Are _you_ afraid?"

Cecile mumbled something, but all Meg managed to hear, with the judders of the mirror's breaking still tearing through her mind and body, was "The fire…in the kitchen. So frightened…" The maid pointed to the minute fire in the grate, and then fell still again, huddling into her blankets.

Carlotta raised her head wearily from her knees. "Then Raoul is not the only one to have paid a price. In some strange, unseen way, we have _all _paid, in a peculiar coin. Perhaps this is the punishment that you have feared, Meg."

"Carlotta, don't – _don't _say that!" Christine burst out, righteous with anger but also tinged with desperation, Meg dully found. For her part, she found no falsehood in Carlotta's words. _We went against nature. It was worth it, but this is retribution for our deeds. _"You're not being punished! You haven't done _anything_ wrong, _any_ of you!"

"Perhaps we have not done anything wrong, Christine. But we are still being punished, all of us," the dark-eyed girl said, the faint light of the fire flickering upon her tired, slightly haggard face.

Christine shook her head, her eyes filling with furious tears, as she clenched her little fists. "No – no! This isn't fair! It isn't _right!_ All you did was help me – I won't let this happen to you! It's not fair, that you should have to suffer!"

"It _is_ fair, Christine," Meg said softly, reaching forward and placing a hand on the lace clad shoulder. "We would have done anything to rescue you, and in carrying out that wish we did something, something that we perhaps should not have done." She held out a hand to Carlotta, who took it and stood up as well, shakily but determinedly. "It's too late for regrets, Christine. Grudge who grudges it, it's done. And I can speak for all of us when I say that we still do not regret it, even now."

There was a little grunt from Cecile as she struggled up off the bed, still clutching blankets about her, and walked over to the trio, who reached out for her. Tears were beading at the corners of Christine's eyes as she saw the red mark on the maid's face brighter in the light of the fire, and her nervousness as she drew nearer to it. "You don't deserve this," she was still fervently protesting. "None of you deserve this. And _I_ don't deserve for you to have given up so much for me."

The three girls closed in around their friend, hugging her in their arms, despite her protests.

"Don't ever say that."

"If you do, we won't believe it."

"You are so much better than us, Christine."

"I'm not." But she was murmuring now, her face damp. "I'm really not."

_You really are, Christine, _Meg thought wistfully, as she buried her face in lank but sweet smelling brown hair, and felt the arms of her friends, those she had grown to love as well as the one she had always loved, near her and around her._ To have you back…is worth having to live in eternal fear._

_But…we cannot ignore this, as much as we would want to. Something has happened to us._

_What have we become?_

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I'm fonder of Genevieve than I really should perhaps be. Putting pressure on your little sister to abort her baby, even if you or she might not want to, doesn't exactly put you at the top of anyone's Christmas list, on consideration. But I have excuses for her. She's always been very spoilt, always believing in upholding the honour of the family and doing her duty, and a very strict believer in what is _right_ and what is _not_ right. That's not necessarily wrong, in itself, but in this case it's perhaps not the best attitude to have, especially when Celandine's already on the edge.**

**I am, however, very proud of her relationship with her husband. They're just about the _only_ couple in this story that aren't messed up or in trouble in some way. (Carlotta and Piangi are just starting out, so they don't count.)**

**Just in case you're wondering, Carlotta _isn't_ bulimic(a condition where a person eats a lot, then makes themselves sick on purpose to purge themselves - not that she's really had a chance to do that anyway). There'll be an explanation along in a minute about what's happened to her.**

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These references for odd occurrences are taken from myths and legends I've read about witches and fairy changelings. Not that our girls have actually _become _witches or fairy changelings, but dabbling in the occult always has a price, I find. Or rather I imagine, because I'm a good little Catholic girl (among other things) and haven't summoned any ghosts or spirits or demons or trapped comrades from the underworld.**

_**Yet. **_

**The girls' conditions are explained, or at least expanded upon, below;**

**Meg's fear of mirrors: Mirrors have always had a special place in fairy stories, because they were rumoured to have magical powers. People believed that you could see the future in a mirror, like a crystal ball. However, despite the benefits mirrors provided, such as the procedure I mentioned back in chapter 41 (I wonder if anyone actually tried that?), people were also superstitious around them. Lots of people still believe that breaking a mirror is extremely bad luck, and in the middle ages, and later on as well, when a person was dying people would often take all the mirrors out of the room or even the house, or if that was impossible turn the surfaces to the wall, so that when the person died their spirit would not be trapped in the mirror. There was, supposedly, also a rather nastier superstition, which said that a person, and especially a witch, should never get between two mirrors; otherwise, as written so very aptly by the great Terry Pratchett in 'Witches Abroad':**

"**Something…like…a witch should never stand between two mirrors because, because, because the person that walked away might not be the same person. Or something. Like…you were spread out among the images, your whole soul was pulled out thin, and somewhere in the distant images a dark part of you would get out and come looking for you, if you weren't very careful. Or something."**

**(So that's done it for Kate Moss, I should reckon.)**

**Cecile's fear of fire: This one may be pretty obvious. Lots of witches got burned to death, after all. _Or did they? _England, it seems, never actually burned any witches at the stake (though Scotland more than made up for it) and France and Germany preferred to strangle the victims as an act of mercy before sending them to the hanging stand or to be garrotted (which defeats the object of the exercise, when you think about it). However, fire has always been regarded as a protection against apparent evil. New born babies, before they were baptised and therefore given the church's blessing, often had small rings of candles placed around their cribs while they slept (again, used in chapter 37). Now, although _we_ know that Cecile's not evil, the living world doesn't know that, and it's acting accordingly to attempt to remove her as a threat. You really have to feel sorry for the girl.**

**Carlotta's sickness: For Carlotta's condition(no, I tell a lie, it's _this_ girl you really have to feel sorry for), I turned to Irish folklore, and the theory of changelings; supernatural imitations substituted for people spirited away from the human world by 'The Shining Ones' – fairies, if you like. Most changelings mentioned are when babies were switched in the cradle in stories, leaving a deformed creature in place of the human child. The theory then is to raise the changeling as your own, and hope that your own child will eventually be returned in exchange for protecting and nurturing the changeling. However, lots of understandably ticked off Irish couples set out to get their kids back – with mixed results. **

**But the myth of changelings was not harmless, and not restricted to legends, often with terrifying results. For example, in March 1894 a man who lived in Clonmeal, County Tipperary, called Michael O'Leary, became obsessed with the idea that his faithful wife Bridget was in fact a fairy changeling, and his real wife had been spirited away, especially since he claimed she had grown at least two inches over night. When Bridget protested her innocence he turned violent, and with the help of friends and neighbours began to torture her to ensure her confession. Going along with the idea that fairies could not eat normal human food (much like the unfortunate Carlotta now can't keep her meals down for long), they challenged her to eat some bread; since poor Bridget was too terrified to swallow the food she was held down and it was forced down her throat. Understandably she most likely vomited from being force-fed in such a brutal manner, giving O'Leary the excuse he needed to destroy the 'evil spirit'. And so he poured lamp oil over her, after burning her again and again with a red hot piece of metal, and set her alight, leaving her to die in the hearth of her house. A horrified neighbour who had called to visit swiftly alerted the police, and O'Leary and the others were arrested and eventually charged with man-slaughter, since they had genuinely believed the fairy kidnap idea. O'Leary was sentenced to twenty years hard labour. **

**O'Leary was of course completely insane, but some of the people who had aided him had truly believed in what he had said, and acted accordingly. Of course, nobody suspects our three girls of anything suspicious – yet. But that doesn't change the fact that it's rather eerie (and coming from me, that's a major statement) to think that people could still believe in fairies, and act in such an atrocious way, just over a hundred years ago. **

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	47. Sanguis

**Disclaimer: I do own my presents, but not this.**

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HAPPY CHRISTMAS, ONE AND ALL!**

**Considering I wasn't that excited about Christmas this year, I got some really great prezzies. My parents and sister really are the best. Now I can finally see why everyone's either squeeing or complaining about Dead Man's Chest. (And if you don't know what THAT'S about, you must have been living under a rock since spring.)**

**Plus, my dad got me M.R. James ghost stories on DVD! Yes! _On DVD!_ I felt like I might faint from the happiness.**

**So, in return, here is my Christmas prezzie to you all – a bit late, but better late than never.**

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The drizzling rain made the scene miserable indeed, for it was soaking the grass around the rebels' bodies, blending blood and sap and turning it to mud. The valley was dissected by little rivulets. Not the pure fresh waters of new life but streams of death that carried the wolves' souls weeping through the grass.**

**The Sight _by _David Clement-Davies.**

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'**Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief. Indeed, it was no wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on my being put under control. I used to fancy that life was a positive and perpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live things, no matter how low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong life. At times I held the belief so strongly that I actually tried to take human life. The doctor here will bear me out that on one occasion I tried to kill him for the purpose of strengthening my vital powers by the assimilation with my own body of his life through the medium of his blood – relying, of course, upon the Scriptural phrase, "For the blood is the life."'**

**Dracula, _by _Bram Stoker**

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Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is alchemy's first law of Equivalent Exchange. In those days, we really believed that to be the world's one, and only, truth.**

**Alphonse Elric's introduction to episodes 2 – 41, Fullmetal Alchemist, created by ****Hiromu Arak****awa.**

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(This chapter gets _three _quotes to celebrate, since I have _always _wanted a chapter called sanguis – and now I've finally got one! Squee hee! A late Christmas prezzie or an early birthday one? Who knows? Who cares? Just enjoy the chapter! Also, the last quote I put in there because Fullmetal Alchemist is DA BOMB. Even if fanfiction writers are always trying to pair Edward Elric with Roy Mustang. You know who you are. And, when all's said and done, that pairing creeps me out almost as much as the E/R relationship. And I'm sure that lots and lots and _lots _of people would agree with me.)****

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Sanguis

Defarge wearily lit the last candle, and placed it in the circle around him, putting the box of matches itself on the floor. He really shouldn't be doing this, not so soon after the last summoning three nights ago – using the ritual over-excessively could be potentially fatal. While researching this particular ceremony during his time in the seminary, he had read of at least one priest who had shed his blood so many times, spoken so eagerly to so many of his dead ancestors from far back in history, that – he still shuddered from the memory of that particular passage – one morning he had been found dead in his cell, as shriveled and withered as a mummy, without a single drop of blood left in his body though without any sign of any wound for it to have escaped from; his puckered mouth locked in a final, futile scream. That was the nature of the spirits: no matter what relation they were, they hungered for blood…and if blood of the family was continually shed for them, they tended to attract other, darker shades, which were far less fastidious about attaining the blood they so desperately loved and desired.

Besides, exerting the effort to keep the circle of protection going (a precaution laid down by the first practitioners of this obscure but powerful technique, since the _very_ first to try it had sometimes tended to lose control of their 'guest', and were unable to stop them wreaking havoc on anyone who happened to be observing or simply in the vicinity at the time) was tiring as well, especially since he had had to do two in one night. All in all, he had had more than second thoughts about this venture. Not that he would mind seeing Nadir again, since he used the ritual so rarely: only six times, counting the last one, in the ten years since he had first discovered the…he disdained to call it a 'spell', though in all essence, that was what it was.

But this…this was different. It wasn't for him, but for others, for those poor children who had already suffered so much, that he sought to contact his forbear again, so soon, so dangerously soon.

They had come to him earlier that very evening. He was surprised that they hadn't mustered up the courage to come sooner, since their problems were so…unholy. But it had been Carlotta that they were most concerned about, naturally; and she had flatly refused to seek help for her terrible condition until nearly two days had passed without her being able to eat anything at all, and the constant pleas and urgings from her friends to ask for his aid had finally worn through her stubbornness. It was, if truth be told, a far longer fast than he would have imagined any untrained aristocrat, used to rich food in abundance, would have been to cope with, and he was duly impressed by the Spanish girl's determination and resolve.

Fortunately she had discovered that she was still able to drink, and so since the horrible revelation she had been living off clear broths and tea, though any liquid too thick seemed to be classed as 'food', and so came up again very quickly, with many _'co-ack's' _on poor Carlotta's part. And yet, somehow, she managed to bear all of her suffering, all of her discomfort and her swiftly growing pangs of hunger, with a quiet, dignified patience that was truly remarkable to all those who knew the truth.

This had made her friends all the more determined to help her, as well as each other, each one hardly taking notice of their own woe, though these were bad enough as they were. Raoul had been unable to regain all of his lost strength by sleeping, and still moved slowly and with great effort, though his hair had regained its original colour through Carlotta's dye; Meg's fear of mirrors was by now so great, do what she might, that she hardly dared go into a room where there was one without someone supporting her, and even then she dared not look into it. It was much the same for little Cecile with fire of any sort, which was why they had not stayed to watch him now as he worked, and Christine…

…he preferred not to think of Christine. Whenever he did so, whenever he looked into her brown eyes, he felt the strongest, most powerful urge imaginable, to take her in his arms and let her weep upon his shoulder, stroking her and whispering to her that he would make sure that she was always safe; which, of course, was not possible…or else he had another equally powerful urge to ward her off as something unholy, unclean, wretched, unnatural. As a priest, and much more as someone who could see what others could not, he had looked into Christine's eyes, the eyes of the one whom he had once longed to reach out and save, and he saw someone who was already dead, who had died long ago, in the Land of the Dead.

So he preferred to think of the others, to save himself from his own fears, and not to think of Christine at all, to spare both of them. At least, not until he had consulted Nadir.

He had to help them, all of them. He had to find some way. And since it was Nadir who had suggested the procedure they had used in the process, he had an idea that his dead great grandfather would have an answer to his problems, as he had had to so many others.

He now let his mind slip into the special meditation he now used before making the cut for the summoning, preparing the way for the particular spirit to come through, however briefly the amount of his blood dictated, into the living world; and also to make quite sure that the spirit he summoned was the one he actually _wanted_ to meet, rather than something he would not. He was forever thankful to God that he had managed to summon Nadir on his first try at the ceremony, rather than any other spectre who would be willing to gorge itself upon his blood and then turn upon him for more.

At length, his mind made the tenuous connection which he had grown used to and even grown to imagine in images as well as feelings, like a cold, cold key being inserted right into his forehead by an invisible hand; with a pure white ribbon tied to it, stretching back into the darkness which loomed in a little way away from his eyes, the candles now only softly illuminating his own private little world. The link was there, but it was exceptionally fragile; only with blood from the vein could it remain solid for more than a few seconds.

He had to act swiftly. He was practiced enough that he could bring the razor sharply across the heel of his palm without breaking his concentration, barely flinching at the minute pain that he was so used to by now. As he did so, the whiteness of the ribbon began to turn pink, the colour slowly running down the length of the fabric, and swiftly melting into a vivid, vibrant red, flowing away into the darkness, providing a guiding light for whatever was coming the other way and using the connection as a guide. Carefully he measured the amount of blood, and when the redness grew to a satisfactory amount he sealed off the flow with a quick brush of his mind, healing his flesh in the process. A trick that he had managed, with Nadir's help, on his third summoning; before that he had had to bandage his wrist and wear long shirt cuffs, lest people begin to get suspicious ideas and make assumptions. But at least back then he could simply drip more blood by exposing his wound again, rather than cutting again and again.

And now he could see a faint figure, making its way out of the darkness. He tensed himself, ready to at once break off the connection if it was not who he wanted it to be, but then he relaxed as he recognised his ancestor's distinctive aura, and made out the spirit's features.

He had no idea what the summoning looked like from an outsider's eye – even when the others had sat in on his actions, he had only been aware of them as voices outside the circle of light rather than as actual images – but he always saw Nadir as he must have been in life and presumably at the moment of his death, dressed in a fairly simple long sleeved tunic and trousers which reached to his ankles, slippers upon his feet, a silken turban on his head, his dark beard neat and orderly, his green eyes shining with intelligence; the only discordant element the great slit in his throat which had snuffed out his life.

And now on his face he bore an expression of terrible sadness, unconquerable and crushing…not the sort of sadness when one wept, but when one was too quiet and too unhappy even to cry. Despite himself, Defarge almost leant out to place a hand upon Nadir's shoulder, even while he knew that this could never be. Even in this summoning, great grandfather and great grandson could never touch, brought together by both their efforts but in truth sundered forever.

"Nadir." Apart from last time, when he had made the introduction for the benefit of the others, this was always how he had addressed his ancestor. Neither of them ever mentioned their relation by blood, save again for last time, when they had explained to those who did not understand. Why should Defarge address the spirit as his great grandfather, and why should Nadir address him as the son of his daughter's son, when both of them already knew through their blood, deeper than any name or title? They saw each other as equals in their strange, unnatural partnership, and addressed each other as such.

"Darius." Nadir nodded his head in acknowledgement. "I am surprised that you contacted me again, so soon."

"It was necessary." But before he could begin to relate his own problems, he felt obliged to ask after those apparent ones of his elder. Though they treated each other as equals, there were times when age was deferred to, even though Nadir hadn't been much older than he was now at the time of his death. "What happened when…your _friend_…found out about Mademoiselle Daaé's escape?"

Nadir sighed, shaking his head. "He was furious beyond measure, more sad than furious and more vengeful than either emotion. He cast me out of his domain when I came to try and calm him down. He has renounced our friendship, and I know not what. I fear for him, and because of him."

"I am sorry, Nadir." But Defarge could not help inquiring further, for the sake of the others. "What do you think he will do? Will he be able to come after Mademoiselle Daaé again?"

"I do not think so. He is not strong enough for that, rage and rant though he may. He only managed to come to the masquerade because Christine was with him, as far as I can tell. Now she has gone, the power that came to him with the regaining of his body will undoubtedly diminish. Even the wards he has no doubt placed on his lair will fade, allowing me access again. As it should be. He should not be left alone at this time, even if only to have someone to throw things at."

Defarge did not know whether he should smile at that last statement or not, so he chose to say nothing more on the subject. Instead, he turned his attention to the matter at hand, swiftly explaining the condition of the children that gradually worsened with each passing day.

When he had finished, Nadir look more troubled than ever. "I feared that this might happen."

"You _knew?" _Usually Defarge never raised his voice during the summoning – he had never needed to, until now. "You _knew _that this might happen to those poor children? You _knew _that Raoul would have his life sucked out of him, that Carlotta would slowly and patiently starve to death and Meg and Cecile would walk in constant fear, and Christine…and you didn't _tell_ us?"

A definite frown had come to Nadir's face. "You shouldn't look so surprised, Darius…or has all that I taught you simply run out of one ear? When dabbling with the spirit world, you cannot get something for nothing. It is a greedy, rapacious world, and there is _always _a price to pay. You would not even be able to speak with me now, if you did not make an offering of your blood. What should I have done? It was the only method available to you, and the young Vicomte would have gone through with it regardless of the danger, as, I'm sure, would the friends of Christine. Would it have done any good at all if I had told you all the truth?"

Defarge had to curb his annoyance, with some difficulty. Now was not the time to lose his temper. "It might have helped us to be more prepared for any side effects. But I have no time to argue with you, Nadir. Do you know of anything that can lift the effects?"

But Nadir was staring, staring wide eyed at something other than him. Confused, he looked around – what could there _possibly_ be here that Nadir wanted to look at? – before noticing the ribbon. It was now a deeper, darker red than it had ever been before, and letting heavy droplets of red fall to vanish into the dusk. That was a _lot_ of blood. He had wondered why he had not needed to refresh the ritual beforehand.

"Oh, no." The tone of Nadir's voice made him look back at his ancestor, to be shaken by the real, pure terror on his face. He had never seen Nadir look so frightened, had never seen _anyone_ look so frightened, except for poor little Meg when she hid her eyes from a mirror. "Darius, you have to go back! Break off the connection, break it off right now!"

"But I wanted to ask-"

"Darius, can't you tell? You're losing blood, too much blood! Go back now!"

Darius couldn't see the fuss. It simply meant that Nadir would be able to stay longer to answer his questions, wouldn't it? "But I sealed my-"

"_Go!"_

At those words the key was torn from his forehead, the power of the circle at once vanished, and the dreamlike haze which always accompanied his visitations disappeared like a puff of air. Defarge was suddenly aware of the pain in his wrist, customary for a summoning and a sealing, but even more so now, because...because…

…because the gash was _still_ open, still pouring out great bursts of blood, and the floor, the floor was covered in a huge pool of ghastly redness, his red blood, spreading out across the wooden floor, lapping against the candles, soaking his own knees and the box of matches.

_Oh God, oh God, oh **God!** _

He seized his wrist quickly, exerting pressure on the wound, trying to cut off the blood supply, trying to stop the flow, trying to stop his life leaking away before his eyes. _Why didn't it close? I sealed it, I _know_ that I did!_

But his flesh would not seal now, no matter what he did. Without his meditation he could only attempt to seal the wound with his fingers. There was too much blood, too much, and it went on pouring between his clenched fingers, escaping through the gaps in the flesh like water out of a leaking jar; it sang down over the floor and added to the crimson lake that now stretched beyond the border of the candles, no matter what he did, no matter how hard he pressed, because his blood would not clot, _could_ not clot, would not turn solid but kept on spilling out of him.

He opened his mouth wider than was needed for his previous gasps and tried to call, to scream for aid, for someone to come and help him, to try and stop the bleeding, but his tongue had locked in his throat in the full horror of what was happening to him, and he could not speak. As if he were watching from outside his damaged, draining body, he had no control over his actions, save to try futilely to close the wound.

_I'm going to die, _he realised, quite suddenly. _My wound won't close. My blood won't clot. I'm going to die. I've lost too much. I'm…I'm going to die._

A sudden burst of weakness made him tip forward; he flung out his hand to save himself from splashing down into the pool of blood, meaning that his wrist was free to bleed all the more, and it did so, flooding down over his palm and his fingers, coating them in warm wet redness that stank of iron. The reek of his own blood was almost overpowering. He felt his stomach heave in protest.

But he was aware at the same time of the darkness encroaching rapidly from the corners of his eyes, spilling into his vision, curling across the sea of blood, until he thought that if he cried he would either weep tears of blood or of shadow. He knew what this was – other, far terrible spirits than Nadir had picked up the traces of blood, and a great deal of blood at that, and were even now swarming for the feast, straining and squirming to make their way into life. It mattered little than there was no connection to the Land of the Dead at present, when one had just been broken off. A newly broken bridge could be rebuilt surprisingly swiftly.

_They will drain me, _he thought suddenly, as he tried in vain to get a hold on his wrist again, though he knew that it was no good even as his fingers fumbled. _They'll drink me dry. If I don't bleed to death, they'll suck all the life out of me. Just like that priest, in his cell…_

_Not like this. Not like this. Please, _God_, don't let me die like this!_

He lost his balance, and toppled sideways and landed hard on the floor, the blood stinging his eyes and coating his tongue as he gasped and bubbled for air, sweet air that would not keep him alive for long.

"Grand-père," he whispered, half drunk with weakness and fear, choking on the metallic taste that burnt his throat. "Please, help me. Don't let me die. I don't want to die. Not like _this._"

Already it seemed too late. As his eyes closed he knew he was delirious, for he felt fingers upon him, hands clawing at him, one cradling his head, the other grasping his bleeding wrist, which was painful enough almost to bring him back, but not quite – and a voice, a voice crying out in anguish, a voice that he felt he _should_ know but could not quite place at the moment.

"_No_, Darius; not you too! Not _you_ as well! Please, no! Not this, _never_ this! I _won't_ let this happen!" There was an even greater pain in his wrist at those words, but he was hardly aware of the pain any more, so dulled was he to it by now.

_It's too late, _he thought calmly, not bothering to open his eyes. _I'm only sorry I couldn't help the others. _

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It's too late, he thought again, as he drifted into a gentle sea of dark, sweet calm, wet cloying all around him, supporting him, caressing him._

_But what will this look like, when I am found?_

_That _was incentive enough to open his eyes again, to see the ceiling above him. Slowly, carefully, he raised his head to look around him. The candles had melted down in their wicks, so time had passed while he had floated in the dark sea, darker than the pool around him, and he was lying on his back, feeling the dampness of the blood soaking through the back of his shirt, and seeping through his hair. Most notable, however, was the lack of darkness at the corners of his eyes and the loss of wet warmth upon his wrist.

He turned his head, and looked at the end of his arm. He hardly dared to believe it when he saw the scabbed flesh, puckered but closed, closed to keep his blood in rather than out.

He let his head fall back to the boards, with a thump and a squelch, too tired and drained of more than his lifeblood even to breathe a prayer of gratitude. He was alive, and all that he could concentrate on now was breathing.

A little while later, when he could do more than breathe and blink slowly, he pushed himself up and away from the floor, his clothes near soaked through by now and sticking to his back in a less than pleasant fashion. It was odd; he _should_ be disgusted, but all he was now was curious as he gazed at the blood that was soaking into the floor boards; still extremely liquid, even now, so long after it was shed.

_I was right. My blood will not clot. It…no longer _can.

_It has come to _me,_ as well._

Defarge lifted his wrist to gaze at the closed wound, still so susceptible to open again, and this time bleed until he ran dry. He could not risk making another cut, he could not risk it…

…he could not risk summoning Nadir again.

It was as simple as that.

He stared long and hard at his damaged, mended skin. Perhaps it had been a miracle. Or perhaps so much blood had summoned more than just hungry ghosts – maybe it had summoned a stronger version of the one he had wanted just then, more than anything in the world; the one he would now never see again.

"Well met, great grandfather," he whispered. "Well met indeed."

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That wasn't _too_ icky, was it? No, didn't think so. Who's been reading too many Garth Nix books? Yes, that would be me.**

**And who's been reading too much Stephen King? Yes, that would be me again.**

**Hemophilia – a disease usually only suffered by men, since they have a Y gene that can genetically carry the disease, where the blood lacks the ability to clot - is _really_ scary. If you get even a tiny cut, you could bleed to death, since the cut wouldn't be able to close. Fortunately I don't know anyone who has it, which is a relief. I was once writing a story where one of my main female characters had it, but after my sister told me that the genes she got from her parents would have to be _really _messed up in order to do so (her father would have to have it, and her mother would have to have the latent gene for it – or something like that?) that in the end I gave it up as too confusing. And yes, I _know _you can't develop hemophilia right off the ball, since you're born with it, but indulge me, hmmm? **

**So, what will happen to our intrepid heroes _next?_ Tune in for the next exciting episode of _L'epoux cadavre!_**

**(I've been listening to Girl Genius Radio theatre for _far _too long.)**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	48. Encroaching shadows

**Disclaimer: I do not own this, but I do own the philosophical musings of a newly made adult at the end.**

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On a world note, HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ANYONE WHO HAPPENS TO BE READING THIS! Unless, of course, you celebrate Chinese New Year, in which case HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR TO COME!**

**On a personal stretching into an informative note, on Thursday 28th of December, 2006, I, SarahBelle, turned eighteen. I am now, according to the laws of England, virtually an adult in every single way. I can vote (although politics bores and depresses me). I can apply for a driver's license (although technically I could already do that when I was seventeen). I can legally drink in pubs (although I hate alcohol in every form, and made rather interesting faces when Mum sweetly influenced me into drinking the champagne at my birthday tea, and caught it all on camera forever; unless I manage to get hold of the camera somehow, which should be intriguing. Cue the _Mission Impossible _music.)**

_**Quel est le point ?**_

**Mum and Lucie have been asking me whether I feel any different now that I'm eighteen, and I've told them I don't; but secretly I do feel just a little depressed, even though I got some good presents, again. I mean, I _liked _being a child, or at least a growing up child. I _liked _being hyper, but now I shall _always_ have to pass it off as being eccentric. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, but still…**

**But really; the eeriest thing about being eighteen? Even more creepy than the fact that I can now get married without my parents' permission (which I again could do when I was seventeen, but now I supposedly should feel better about it, for some reason), which in itself should be a sign for everyone to dash for the bunkers (since whatever husband I am possibly crazy enough to engage in holy wedlock and who is likewise as crazy, and whatever children we would have, should I choose to _have_ children, would quite certainly, however in-avertedly, bring about the apocalypse)save for the fact that I am, in my own words, a 'prude'? **

**It's the fact that I am now, theoretically, the same age as many of my main characters, and so the same age as Christine. Who basically, I feel, is in much the same position as poor little Elizabeth Swann (another heroine who I am now supposedly round about the same age as) is between William Turner and Captain Jack Sparrow.**

**Aka, a love triangle. (Cover your ears to block out the squees of the E/C shippers, if you please.) Including a man who, though he is dead, is certainly subtly interested in something no dead person should have to be concerned about. Unless the Marquis de Sade happens to be around. (All you eighteen year olds out there, watch _Quills. _If nothing else, it gives an interesting view into the nature of the human psyche, as well as what makes certain people tick. And feel sick. Hee hee.) **

**And I'm now _the_ _same age _as the girl he's madly, passionately and fatally in love with, and who, despite _all_ she says, might _just _be reciprocating. (Right, now _really _cover your ears.)**

**It's odd. It's fascinating. But more than anything else, to my mind at least, it's time to be _very _afraid.**

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(This chapter gets three quotes again, in late celebration of my birthday, and because you all seem to like them so much.)**

_**They say that the Dead die not, but remain**_

_**Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.**_

_**I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,**_

_**In wise majestic melancholy train,**_

_**And watch the moon, and the still raging seas,**_

_**And men, coming and going on the earth.**_

**_From _Clouds, _by _Rupert Brooke**

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Morpheus: I thank you. The kings of Hell are honorable. I will remember this.**

**Lucifer: Honorable? You joke, surely. Look around you, Morpheus. The million Lords of Hell stand arrayed about you. Tell us why we should let you leave? Helmet or no, you have no power here... what power have dreams in hell?**

**Morpheus: You say I have no power? Perhaps you speak truly... But -- you say that Dreams have no power here? Tell me, Lucifer Morningstar.. Ask yourselves, all of you... What power would Hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream of Heaven? **

**A Hope in Hell, _from _Preludes and Nocturnes, _by_ Neil Gaiman**

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The Bride(aka Beatrix Kiddo): Bitch, you can stop right there. Just because I have no wish to murder you before the eyes of your daughter, does not mean parading her around in front of me is going to inspire sympathy. You and I have unfinished business. And not a goddamn fuckin' thing you've done in the subsequent four years, including getting knocked up, is going to change that.**

**Kill Bill: Vol 1, _directed by _Quentin Tarantino, _writing credits _Quentin Tarantino _and _Una Thurman. (Leaving aside the high literature for the moment, and getting back to basics. You really can't get more basic than going on a revenge quest and hacking people to bits with an incredibly spiffy sword. And if you _can_, it's news to me.)**

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Encroaching shadows

_Blood. _The scent, the very essence of it, had surged through the underworld, and the dregs of the dead had latched onto it like hounds upon the trail of the wounded prey. The sluggish drain of the river had suddenly changed direction, and now millions of tiny rivulets were moving very swiftly upstream, squirming and searching for the warmth of the blood, the warmth of the life that was being spilt for their pleasure and consumption. The very river glowed and gurgled with their degenerate anticipation of the feast that might come, should they be quick enough to reach it.

Erik followed on moldering foot, walking far more quickly along the bank than any mortal being would be able to master, faster even than the lesser spirits trapped within the river's banks. It would not last, of course – now that his own particularly beautiful little source of life was…gone, soon he would lose the ability to hold himself inside this body, just as he would lose much of the power he had gained with Christine's blessed presence. Soon he would be unable to hold on to his mortal, fleshly body, and it would fall away piece by piece, even quicker if he exerted himself too much. Once more he would lose his body, and after some time, he had resigned himself that _this_ time, it would be forever.

Most people only died once; it took a very special and unfortunate person to experience death twice.

Still, while he still had vigor in him, he would not waste it by silently mourning in his lair, and the music had failed to come since _she _had gone. What had once been his home, or as much a home as the after-life could provide, had now become empty; empty of joy, empty of purpose, empty of hope, empty of…_her_. If he stayed there, he knew that he would go mad, truly mad. He had often heard, when he was alive, that the dead feared nothing any longer; but he knew in his still, silent heart that this was not true. Some might think that all his fear was gone, now that…

But now, his greatest fear was that he would descend into madness; that he would be destroyed by insanity and grief from the inside out, shredded and rotted more quickly and efficiently than any decay or loss of power could achieve. And he would lose whatever memory he had of her. That would truly be worse than remembering her back turned towards him, forever and ever. He did not know what would be worse; the calm and peace that madness and dissolution would bring, or the sweet agony that came with memory.

He did believe, however, when he could fight off his misery enough to think rationally, that he perhaps understood a particular definition of hell – merely the absence of God's presence, save for the fact that instead of God, all he had come to worship and adore in his death was Christine.

How _could_ he stay in that place, that place where he had held an angel in his arms, where he had humbled himself before a very goddess – only to have her abandon him, with barely a word, barely a glance, as if he were as much an insect as Lucifer? It was folly. What was more, it bore down upon him with all the weight of the earth.

So, he was stretching his legs, while he still physically had them.

And, he had to admit, he was curious, despite his lethargy, to see who exactly was being _stupid_ enough to perform a summoning with such a dangerously large amount of blood, as well as whether the one who _had_ been summoned was giving in to temptation yet and draining the life of their own, dear relative.

The idea of the length of the journeys taken in the Land of the Dead was nowhere near as great as the scope that the mortal mind had suggested. It was mildly depressing. If Christine _were_ beside him, or more likely in the boat in front of him, it would take far longer; as it was it seemed that he had hardly started out on his morose little walk before abruptly the surge raged upwards, and through the layers both of earth and of something far stronger than earth.

It was oddly fascinating to stand and watch the seemingly never ending upsurge, pouring up into the roof of the cavern this particular part of the river was set in. Fascinating, but disturbing as well. The spirits, in their efforts, had lost their translucence, and now in their frantic scrambles and scuffles they actually appeared to have taken on the consistency of thick, writhing shadow. Either that, or the appearance of impossibly large and excited black slugs.

He shook his head softly, as he stood and stared at the onslaught. It was disquieting, seeing the depths to which humanity could sink after death. Of course, he knew that the majority of the shapes in the river were not truly spirits, not like the ones in the necropolis, but merely an impression of the psyche of various multitudes of humans, particularly ones who had died violently or unexpectedly. Perhaps some imprint of _him_ was swimming about in there, somewhere; certainly he had been scared senseless in his early days in the Land of the Dead when he had gazed into the waters and seen Nadir's blank, shocked face staring up at him…

He bit his lip at the thought of his old friend…his _former _friend. He couldn't think of him anymore. Along with thoughts of Christine, it was simply too painful. If he spent too much time obsessing over the betrayal, that would be as damaging as his grief. He simply _could_ not let that happen, or otherwise he would end up a demented, foaming wreck, with his flesh falling like snow into the bargain. If he _had _to lose his body, along with everything else, he wanted at least to do it with some dignity.

_I have been robbed of it in practically everything else._

Even as he mused upon that sour thought, another shock vibrated through the vast cavern. All there, himself included, knew what this meant; the foolish human performing the summoning had finally noticed the amount of blood lost and the danger they were in, and was breaking off the connection to the Land of the Dead. Instead of being discouraged, however, the torrent of spirits became a veritable flood, squirming and burrowing their way up and up and to the surface. This was the crucial moment now, when the memory of the connection was still fresh, and could easily be constructed again by enough power from below. Surely the first of the dregs must have reached above by now?

The sight of the threshing, writhing force of bodies sickened him. Now more than ever he was reminded of dogs, hunting down a bleeding, helpless animal. The irony of the situation was not unobvious to him. He knew as well, all too well, what it was like to flee from those chasing him, his precious blood spilling out of him, taking his life and strength with it. And he knew what it was like to happen again, only with far more pain and the mercy of death already gone, with no balm to heal his wounded soul.

_I will not listen to this. _

He was already turning to return to his lair – even the empty silence would be better than the screams which would very soon begin, when the spirits found the unlucky caster and began to drain them, piercing both earth and the barrier between the worlds of the living and the dead – when a wave of anguish so familiar, so strong, clutched at his heart and squeezed it, enough to draw a gasp out of him.

_Christine? _he thought wildly. But it was not her, thankfully. He took some small delight in that. He bore her no ill will, not with all that other people had done. He couldn't even believe that she had betrayed him, not because he knew that she hadn't, but because it was easier for him, and probably for her.

It was that, or, as he reminded himself again and again, drive himself insane.

But in any case, it wasn't her. It was…_Nadir?_

What on _earth_ was Nadir doing _above _the earth, now, at this time of all times? Unless…

_Unless…_

_That _filthy_ hypocrite._

He looked up at the hole in the cavern ceiling, through which the spirits were still pouring, and he felt a smile curve his lips. It felt out of place. It seemed as if he had lost the ability long ago. It was not a particularly friendly smile, at least, he could tell that.

He took a step forward, and placing his hands upon the rocks nearest him began to clamber up the cavern wall with little or no effort, until he reached the spot where the hole had been wrenched by the sheer force of the spirits pressing upon it.

The shades of those who passed through the Land of the Dead had lost many of their human faculties while constantly stewing in the river, but that did not automatically make them stupid. On the contrary, losing all the unnecessary baggage Man had developed over the centuries to carry around inside his head had left them in much the same state as the uncultured, innocent animals; and animals are often far more intelligent than humans give them credit for. These particular spirits knew exactly what sort of creature he was, and they reacted as any animal might to an unknown but rapidly approaching threat. The mass of squirming, wriggling specters shied away from him, the eyes that he could see wide and fearful, and his smile widened as he reached the edge of the hole and began his long, laborious climb upwards and through the dark tunnel that had been crafted.

The journey only took a few seconds, he knew, but it felt like an eternity of reaching upwards, pulling himself up, getting a foot hold, and then repeating the procedure again, and again, and again. At least he did not have to concern himself about in-avertedly being touched by one of the spirits – not that it would do him much harm if such a thing happened – since all the way up they cringed away, pushing against each other, even swarming back down the tunnel in their efforts not to touch him. As a result, he reached the place of summoning extremely quickly, before even any other of the frantically burrowing shades that had worked so hard making the connection, all for him.

What he saw, when he emerged with a wriggle of triumph of his own into a branch of the live world, if not the Land of the Living itself, was enough to spark some astonishment, an emotion he had not thought he would ever have enough energy for again.

There was a man, a fairly young man, lying in both the middle of a protective circle and a great pool of his own blood, more pumping from his wrist all the while. His face was pale, and he had obviously fainted, partly from the fear that was thick upon the air, but mostly from the loss of blood, the smell of which was also very thick upon the air.

The fact that he was attired in an outfit which obviously denoted him as a priest was what was the most surprising…except perhaps for the fact that, if he looked closer and examined the lines of the man's face and jaw, his nose, his lips, he began almost disturbingly to resemble-

"_Darius!"_

And here was _another_ surprise, in this interesting evening. He watched coolly as _Nadir_ abruptly flowered into being inside the circle, apparently unaware of his presence, his transparent form becoming clearer by the moment, and his normally cool and collected face twisted by fear and misery. He reached fervently out to the unconscious man, and cried out in despair when his hands went right through him, again and again.

"No! Darius, _please_, open your eyes! You _can't _die! Not like this!" he yelled as he stretched out his hands again, apparently undeterred despite his failure.

It was sobering to watch the useless efforts of the spirit, as he tried again and again to lift the mortal, coming close to tears of fear and frustration as he failed each time, calling out the man's name over and over again in desperation; even though he kept firmly in mind the fact that he had sworn to hate him for all eternity. Again he could sympathize, but this time, against his will though it might be, with Nadir instead of the boy, presumably named Darius. He knew what it was like to watch someone he loved pass away, and be unable to do anything about it. He knew that experience all too well.

And so he calmly blocked the paltry efforts of the shades impatiently and greedily building up behind him, streaming up from the Land of the Dead, waiting to fall upon their victim. Death by drainage was one of the most painful demises possible, and despite all that the Persian had done to him he wished to spare Nadir having to watch the suffering of…well, the man had to be his relative, after all, with that face and this particular type of summoning. There was nothing that could be done for the man himself, since too much blood had been lost; but at least the boy could die in peace rather than screaming in agony for the mercy he most certainly would not be granted.

But what was this? Nadir's face had hardened, into an expression he had never seen before, not even when his former friend had been extremely annoyed with him. He looked down upon the pale, drawn features, so like his own, yet so unlike, and appeared to be coming to a major decision. Then he swiftly went down on both knees beside the body, supporting himself with his ghostly hands, and placed his lips to the ever widening pool of blood.

**_What?_**

Erik had to work hard not to reveal himself through his shock, and maintain his barrier, especially since the spirits at once set up a howl of protest at this theft of the blood that was theirs, all theirs, and proceeded to commence battering at him with increased fervency. He endured it all patiently, staring as Nadir proceeded to suck the warmth and the life from the blood of his own relative, his descendant. With every gulp the Persian took, he noted with gorwing interest, more colour flowed into Nadir's outline, his clothes, his hair, his skin. With every gulp, he was losing the look of the dead.

With every gulp, he was becoming more alive.

It was all he could do not to react as his former friend abruptly straightened, his suddenly vivid green eyes fixing on the recumbent form before him. Made savage by the energy granted to him the Persian lunged out and seized Darius's still bleeding wrist; and even the spirits behind Erik stopped still when he lifted it up off the floor, and clasped the fingers of his other hand around it.

_How can this **be? **_he thought frantically, trying to make sense of the situation. _Nadir is dead. He has **no **body. So how can he manipulate the world of the living? This is impossible!_

But apparently Nadir did not know that, as he continued to squeeze Darius's limp wrist. Amazingly, the blood flow appeared to be slowing, even stopping, set to the raging of the spirits that attempted to spew forth from beneath the three of them, but had neither the strength nor the power to change what was happening. And so they could do nothing but watch as Nadir slowly and carefully began to pour the life he had distilled and prepared _back_ into Darius through his swiftly mending wrist. If he strained his ears, Erik could just hear the Persian whispering as he worked.

"You have to live, Darius. Do you hear me? You _have_ to. Live. _Live._ For all those who love you. For _me._"

Erik, who was not usually moved by such things, found that it necessary for him to turn his head away and attend to his efforts to keep the enraged spirits away, while Nadir completed the process, and he heard the thump of the man's arm hitting the floor as it finally slipped through Nadir's once more spiritual fingers. He risked looking back as the Persian stood up, his face quieter now, gazing down at his unconscious but now stable human descendant. A little colour was already coming back into the man's face, not just from the blood it was lightly spattered with, and his breathing was growing easier by the moment. He would live.

Nadir passed a shaking hand across his brow, and then turned away to depart, now that he had used up the energy the blood had given him; and in doing so he saw _him_.

The Persian really shouldn't have been so surprised, considering how long he had been there, sitting curled up against one side of the hole while his legs stretched across to rest casually on the other side of the hole, effectively blocking the way for the shades; who were even now reluctantly creeping back down the passage, realizing that they had lost and that there would be no blood this time.

Nadir's lips parted, but no sound came out. He inclined his own head, but said nothing. Golden eyes met jade, and neither was willing to look away first.

"Nadir."

"Erik."

And then there was silence, save for the last muted gurgles of those disappearing down the tunnel, not bothering to stay and watch the possible combat.

"Do you come here often?"

_That _was enough to urge a weak chuckle from Nadir, quickly stifled. "Not _here, _so much." He looked back at Darius, now sleeping calmly and peacefully. "And here is not the place to be discussing such things, Erik. Back down below."

"After you, then, _dear _Nadir," he drawled, removing his legs from the opposite wall and standing upright; and he didn't move until Nadir cautiously stepped forward and slipped into the tunnel. Only then did he calmly step after him, and seal off the fragile connection to the living world. He caught one last sight of Darius, unaware of his own blood soaking through his clothes, before the world was sealed off altogether.

Dropping back down into the Land of the Dead was harder than going up from it, in some way. Of course, the world inside the circle of protection was not truly the world of the living, but only a connection in itself to that plain. But, though he hated to admit it, the scent of the blood had fascinated him, along with the lesser spirits. It disgusted him as well, but there it was. The scent of life, of rich and bountiful life, had caught his attention now as much as any human dreg. It wasn't the blood in itself, but the reminder of what warm, flowing blood signified.

His feet landed on the banks of the river, all of its make-believe waters now safely, if sulkily, back in its banks, and looked hard at Nadir. "I believe that I will repeat what I thought earlier, when first I caught wind of this procedure, and your part in it. You are a filthy hypocrite."

Nadir's smile was rather fixed. "Do you have anything else to say to me before you storm off, Erik? Any insults? Any degradation to pour upon my head? Go on, for I will not stop you. All I will say is that I am still not sorry that I did it."

Nadir's calm in the face of his growing anger did wonders, as it always did. Damn the Persian, but he couldn't stay angry at him. Not when he knew that he would do the exact same thing, should a particular _someone_ have summoned him. If that happened, he would tear through shadow and earth and sea and air to reach her side.

"I see." He looked up at the roof of the cavern. "I presume that _he _was the one who summoned you to advise the Vicomte? Maybe I should have let those spirits through after all." But there was no real savor in his words, and he knew in his mind that even if he had known the truth, he _still_ would have kept the shades back. No one deserved to die like that, not even one who had engineered his down fall.

Well…maybe a few. He could think of two off the top of his head with no debate whatsoever.

"No, you wouldn't." _Damn Nadir for being so far seeing._ "You may be trying to act differently, Erik, but you would never do that. You are only deceiving yourself."

"As are you, Nadir." He was determined not to be chastised by the person he had, after all, denounced. "What happened to all your lessons of not interfering in the world of the living that you drummed into me so long ago?"

"Lessons that _you, _apparently, failed to take. But I…I could not help it." Nadir shook his head. "Allah help me, Erik, I could not! He has summoned me again and again. He is my great grandson, one of the last remnants of my blood left. Save for him and his sister, who I can never meet or know, I have no family left, none at all. He is precious to me, so precious."

"You _have_ a family." The betrayal seemed even worse now, because it was doubled, and not against him but against more little Ayesha, who thought she had Nadir's love when in truth she was only a replacement. "You have your daughter, or at least the girl you _claim_ is your daughter. Do not think that pleading your case will soften me." He refused to mention _himself_ as part of that little adopted family any longer.

"Do not think that I love Ayesha less because of this. I love her all the more, because she can be my daughter as he can never be my relative. I am dead, and he is alive." Nadir leaned against the cavern wall, closing his eyes. "But that does not mean that he is not dear to me. Ever since he first risked himself in summoning me, I have come. I have always come, simply to see him, to see my face and that of my wife upon his skull, to know that my blood lives on in such a good, kind, honorable man. I could never love anyone as much as I love Ayesha, but Darius is very nearly as important to me, perhaps so because he is more at risk than she is." Nadir's eyes opened again, and now they were pin points as they glared at the ceiling.

"Which is why, Erik, if you _had _let those spirits consume him, I would have _destroyed_ you. I would have torn your soul from your precious body, and ripped your spirit to pieces and shreds." He turned his glare upon him, and he blinked at the rage in the Persian's face. This was unlike Nadir's usual, long-suffering temperament in the utmost extreme. Now there was cold, harsh fury in every line upon his face, and Erik's short-lived flesh trembled with a cold that had nothing to do with his surroundings. Nadir meant what he said, even if he might not be able to carry it out, and that troubled him more than he could allow himself to think.

"I did _nothing_ to your little great grandson, Nadir, and I have no intention of harming him now. It is not as if I could."

"Just as well," Nadir growled, stepping forward, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Something _has_ happened to him, though. Something I understand all too well. He is in danger. All of those poor children are."

_Oh, **no.**_

"All of them? Even Christine?" His voice was weak and crawled from between his lips like an insect escaping from a cave.

Nadir's rage had gone, to be replaced with concern. "I have said too much. I should go. Goodbye, Erik." At once he was gone.

Erik was left standing upon the bank, thinking furiously. Something had happened to the children, Nadir had said. That probably meant Christine's little friends, as well as his poor Christine herself, and Darius. _And the Vicomte,_ he mentally added, but he was less than worried about Raoul de Chagny. All his thoughts were on Christine.

_What does this mean? _The theory of exchange, a price paid. Clearly those who had stolen her from him were suffering for their daring. Of course he would not smile at the plight of fair ladies, but it comforted him to know there was at least some justice in the world.

But Christine…Christine was in danger. Up there, there was a danger which threatened to destroy her and all those around her.

He sighed. He knew all too well that he was clever, and he knew the extent of his intelligence as well, which was far beyond the scope of most men. The way he had lived had meant that he sometimes had to cut out musings to arrive at a conclusion more quickly; now he could very easily surmise what was going on, and what would happen, to all of them.

_I have been blind._

He knew now what he would do. He would not fight off insanity, or the pangs of love unrequited. He had a purpose once again, and he would fulfill it.

He could wait. He was good at waiting. Perhaps _thi_s was what he had truly been waiting for, all along, ever since his death. And so he would await his chance, as he prepared for the catalyst of this whole squalid affair.

It was all he could do, now; even though he had more than suspicions of what the actual catalyst would inevitably be. For what was likely to happen to actually work, only one thing would do.

_Someone will…_

_Protect her, my dear, dear Christine…_

_Someone's going to die._

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I had quite a lot of fun this chapter, not only with putting in all the oozy sounding words to make your skin creep when it comes to reading about the spirits from the river, but also subtly expressing my views on the human soul – only, if you're reading this, it's not so subtle after all. I mean, if you strip away all the stuff that _we_ believe makes us human, all the theories and ideas built up over the years, the imagination and belief, would we _really_ be any different from animals? Of course not, is what I believe. Likewise, just because an animal cannot feel curiosity or intelligence to the same level that we can does not make them any less important than us. In fact, it often makes them wiser. Without ethics or doubts to get in the way, they often live longer. Place a dog and a man in a disaster area, and see who survives the longest.**

**Humans, meanwhile, in contrast to animals, have what many choose to call a soul, and in having a soul we also have a conscience, which guides us through life and helps us to make the decisions we see fit. Does that truly make us better? I was once asked a question in my tutor group, along the lines of whether a computer might be able to develop a conscience, and I began to play around with the idea that, in the end, we ourselves are just natural computers. Taking away the flesh and muscle and nerve endings on our part, and the wires and electrodes and such things on the part of the computer, we're all just a lot of electrical signals, eternally sending instructions, ideas and commands. When we are born, we are brand new, and our chemically and electrically powered brain is ready to be programmed as those around us see fit. Is this not, in the end, like a newly bought computer? I ventured this theory to my dad, and went on to say that perhaps the only reason technology and computers aren't prized as highly as human life (an opinion which may well be swiftly declining in this modern day and age) is because you can't switch a human back on after turning it off by various means, as you can a computer.**

**Dad didn't enter into the spirit of the conversation (and really, can you blame him?) and said I made human prospects sound awfully depressing, like _Brave New World _or _1984. _I disagreed, saying that I was thinking more along the lines of _The Matrix._**

**You can tell that I'm gearing myself up to start my philosophy classes again, can't you? At least one thing I've learned can be applied to what I've written, if nothing else; we were discussing the idea of the spirit surviving after death, and the possibility of ghosts actually existing. At one point we debated a theory that a ghost is not truly a human spirit but merely an impression left by a former person, perhaps the distress or fear or anger they felt at their death. This, I felt, fitted in rather well with the idea of the shades in the river, since I doubted that proper spirits would appreciate being rowed around on and stirred up by a pole, while less than humanistic impressions, of course, wouldn't give two hoots about anything but the prospect of blood, which explains why they were so eager to get Christine's when she first came down there. (Not that I'd thought all this out at the start, of course – I just did it that way because it looked good in Disney's _Hercules_.)**

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By the way, ignore the stuff at the top. I'm not really depressed about being eighteen. Also, I don't really think anyone would have to be crazy to marry me. Of course they wouldn't!**

**What they _would_ have to be, of course, is possessed of an _extremely_ large library with lots and lots of floors, big winding corkscrew staircases with gleaming banisters, and swishing step ladders on every level. Gotta love the swishing step ladders.**

**In short, a library that _exactly_ resembles the library from Disney's _Beauty and the Beast._**

…

**And thus I will be a spinster for a long, _long _time.**

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Reviews for the half-Irish, eighteen year old, spinster seamstress. (It's eerie to think how much I actually resemble a spinster in the 18th century.)**


	49. Marzipan

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Especially not the sweet stuff.**

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Yep, so not so fast an update as before. Have patience! I'm back at school, and there was some trouble – just be glad you've got this now. Also, thanks to all those who wished me a happy christmas, happy birthday and happy new year in the reviews. If I didn't get back to you, or wish you likewise, then I'm sorry, but trust me when i say that i had some big things on my mind. Things that I can now happily forget about, phew.**

**I'm getting excited now – we're getting nearer and nearer what I have been looking forward to writing ever since I first dreamed the idea up. I just hope I can last that long without blurting out anything important in my excitement.**

**Want a bet?**

**Well, anyway, stuff between – wait for it – Raoul and Carlotta. That's right – the Vicomte and the un-diva.**

**I should write a poem or something with that as the title, one day – but not yet.**

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"…**And he took a bit of marzipan and he just gently put it in my mouth – I remember trying to smile, and blushing, and feeling so foolish – and I fell in love with him just for that, for the gentle way he touched my lips with the marzipan."**

**As Mary said that, Lyra felt something strange happen to her body. She felt a stirring at the roots of her hair: she found herself breathing faster…She felt as if she had been handed the hey to a great house she hadn't known was there, a house that was somehow inside her, and as she turned the key, deep in the darkness of the building she felt other doors opening too, and lights coming on."**

**The Amber Spyglass, His Dark Materials, _by _Philip Pullman**

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Marzipan

It cost Raoul more effort than he thought possible to drag his cold body out of his room, and walk along the corridors, trying to force some life and proper feeling back into his legs.

_It would be funny, if it were not so serious. Here I am, on the morning of my wedding day, and I feel as old as Grandpère._

Movement was better for him, much better. He had learned the morning after Christine had returned from the underworldthat lack of movement led to pain, and a good deal of it. He had experienced few things worse than waking up to discover that his limbs simply would not respond to his will to move, save with stabs of pain, and to lie there growing more and more terrified that he would remain unable to move permanently. It had taken more than a quarter of an hour to nurse some life back into his body, and it had left him afraid of a relapse. No matter how painful it was to move, it was more painful still to remain motionless for too long – and every morning since then he had awoken in agony.

He knew it was ridiculous, but he felt the odd urge to steal one of his grandfather's canes which he sometimes used when his game leg pained him especially, just so that it would be just a little easier to walk along. But his pride scorned that easy way out. He would carry on; he would get up and dress himself and walk to wherever he wished to go, _without_ aid, no matter what pain it cost him to do so.

_If Carlotta can endure her condition, I can as well. At least _I_ can still eat. And I can still look in a mirror or at a flame without fear. I am the lucky one._

The lies made it easier, for all of them. It made their torments that little bit sweeter, that little bit easier to swallow. It made it easier for Christine, in particular. All of them knew that, no matter what they themselves endured, Christine had gone through far worse things.

But he could not see her to comfort her, on this day of all days. To see her now would probably call down more bad luck on them than ever, and Raoul was a good deal more superstitious now than he had been a few nights ago. He would do nothing to risk her; _nothing._

She would still be asleep, but not for long. This was the most important day of her life, as it was his. It was the final culmination of all the planning of both of their families over the years, and all that had been done since they were children; it would ally his family with the business that Christine was heir to, and a fairly substantial business at that, and it would ensure the prosperity of the de Chagny family for years to come. Sometimes, he believed this was the only real reason _why _his grandfather had made the match.

But he was never gladder for any decision the old man had made in his life, even now. If he had never known Christine, he would have been the worse for it, much the worse. It was worth it all, to love her and to know that, against all the apparent odds he imagined, that she loved him, had always loved him and would always love him.

And so his wedding clothes were laid out in his room, and far below him he could hear the noise of the servants setting out the last remaining utensils of whatever was needed for the ceremony in the great hall and the wedding lunch afterwards. Before, his stomach would be trembling at the thought that in a few short hours, he would actually, finally be married. Now…he simply felt at peace.

So he trod a familiar route, one that he had taken often before now, to meet someone he was used to meeting. Nevertheless, as he plodded slowly and steadily along the corridors, he wondered if she would be there today. It was, after all, the morning of her friend's wedding day…

Yes, Carlotta was definitely in the music room today; he could hear the sound of the piano even from the end of the corridor. Before he had found it amazing that she found it in herself to get up every morning at such an early hour and make her way to the music room to practice her pieces, ever since she had first discovered that there _was _a music room in the house. Now, he was glad of her presence. Of all the girls, save Christine, Carlotta was the most level headed, the most sensible. He had enjoyed the talks he had had with her, in the days before his fiancée and her adopted family had arrived. He should have kept them up; Carlotta always had something interesting to say.

He reached the door, and knocked on it loudly, so that she would hear above her playing. At once the music stopped, and Carlotta's voice came instead, "Come in."

It took a bit of fumbling at the door handle, but Raoul managed to push the door open and step into the music room, just in time to see Carlotta swivel around on her seat to stare eagerly at the door, though her slightly waxen face fell a bit when she saw him.

"Oh, Raoul! I am sorry, I…I thought that you were somebody else."

"Somebody that you would infinitely prefer to talk to?" he joked, as he limped nearer to the piano and the girl who sat at it. "Have I been ousted from my position in your early morning recitals?" He had hoped fervently that this would cause her to smile, laugh, anything but stare calmly at whatever held her attention at the moment. But Carlotta simply nodded listlessly in reply, and turned back around to the keys, beginning to pick out a more melancholy tune.

_Oh, drat. I shouldn't have said that. _

Raoul somehow made it to the settee positioned near the piano, and collapsed on it in profound relief. "Carlotta? How is your condition?" he prompted gently, as he sat back against the blessedly soft cushions.

Carlotta banged out a chord. "It is not so good. It does not let me sleep anymore."

_What can I say to that? _Nevertheless, he tried. "We'll find a way to solve it. Defarge asked Nadir last night, as you know. He'll have an answer for us, I'm sure. You'll be better soon, I promise, Carlotta."

"Perhaps." He saw Carlotta cast a glance at…he sat up straighter. What _was _on the side of the keyboard, near Carlotta's hand?

"Carlotta? Is that…is that a box of _sweets _you have there?"

The Carlotta of a few weeks ago would probably have snatched it out of view hastily, determinedly not looking at him. The Carlotta of today simply nodded, and went on playing. Ignoring the agony already surging through him again, he slowly pulled himself up once more and limped back across to lean upon the piano, looking down at the box and what it contained; square pieces of some sort of pale sweet.

_Marzipan. _

_Oh…_

Raoul, along with the kitchen staff of the mansion, had learned early on in her stay that Carlotta loved almonds and anything that contained almonds, to that point of obsession that the cooks had taken to making almond cakes especially for her. Most of all, he had found out, in the days when they had been the only associates of the same age in the house, Carlotta adored marzipan. She had a sweet tooth for many things, but marzipan was a definite favourite.

And now there was a whole box of exceptionally delicious looking marzipan in front of her – it was all he could do not to reach out and sneak a piece for himself - and both of them knew full well that she couldn't eat it. It was the sweetest and deepest of tortures that he could imagine for the poor young woman.

"Who gave you this?" he asked slowly, still wondering why she should set it out in front of herself in plain view. Did she _want_ to punish herself?

Carlotta sighed, and even her sigh was drained, truly unlike the dramatic sighs she was prone to giving beforehand, complete with the back of a hand raised effectively to her brow. "The person that I was expecting instead of you. You remember the harlequin I danced with at the ball? Well, he has been coming here in the mornings to listen to me play, ever since then. He says that he enjoys my music and my company. And yesterday, he gave me this," tapping the box with a finger as she spoke. "He went all the way down to the kitchens to ask them what I loved to eat, and they told him. He brought me a box of marzipan, and he smiled at me as he gave it to me, and told me that he hoped I would enjoy it. How could I tell him that as soon as I tried to eat it, I would vomit it all up again while hardly even tasting it?"

"And so you brought it back here again?" It didn't make sense to him at all. Wouldn't the young man take offence if it appeared his gift had been rejected?

Carlotta suddenly glared at the music in front of her. "I will give it back to him. I should have refused it anyway. It is not proper, not proper at all. Would you do such a thing with Christine, Raoul, such an uncouth, improper thing?"

Raoul stared at her. What was the matter with her? Had her starvation finally soured her? "I think I would. It would show my appreciation for her, if not quite significant of how much I loved her."

"_Sí_," and with that, for perhaps the first time since he had met her, Carlotta's shoulders slumped just a little. "I probably should not be talking about this to you, Raoul. You are not a woman, as well we all know. I need a confidante." She looked up at him, a ghost of a smile playing across her lips. "But I cannot bring these worries to _them, _not when there are far worse ones than a box of marzipan given at the right or wrong time. So, you will do. I know that I cannot choose who I love." She tapped the box again, rather wistfully now, he thought. "This is all too strange. I do not understand love very well, I think."

Raoul stood in silence, and then he walked carefully around to the front of the bench and painfully bent his knees. Carlotta obligingly shuffled along, and he sat down beside her, unable to stop a groan of pain at the action. "I don't think many people do, really," he admitted, when he was seated once more. He had more than half a mind to suggest reading material for her; the book that Christine had given him. Love poetry would surely give her confidence about such matters, and it was not as if he needed it anymore to practice from. He had overcome his stage fright in perhaps the best way possible, by saving the one that he loved most.

But then again, he didn't even have the book any more, did he? He hadn't been able to find it since the night of the ball, when they had rescued Christine. It had been in his room, he was certain of that – maybe one of the servants took it out by mistake? Curious that, very curious.

"But _you_ love Christine?" Carlotta said, bringing his mind back to earth with a rude jolt, and indignation.

The look he gave her at that was no doubt all the answer she needed. She nodded. "So, you love her. That is good for you. I am happy."

They sat there for a time, in silence, their arms barely brushing each other as they looked stolidly at the box of marzipan. Then there was a sniffing sound. Raoul looked round in time to see Carlotta's fingers dart to her eye, to quickly wipe away a little dampness.

_She…she's crying. _Carlotta…_is crying._

"I am sorry," the Spanish girl said quickly, catching his eye, as if her weeping was something to be ashamed of, when she had such good cause for it. "But I…I just want for it all to stop. I want to be happy again, as we were before all this happened. I want Meg and Cecile's fears to go away, and for Christine to become warm again, and not feel like ice whenever we touch her. I want your hair to be brown not from dye but for real, and for you not to walk and talk and breathe with pain all the while. And I want to be able to eat, and I want to be able to eat marzipan, and I want to be able to eat marzipan that someone gave to me as a gift!"

He longed desperately to put his arms around her and comfort her, as he would do to Christine, but he knew that both her pride and her belief of what was proper would never condone it, so instead he put his hand upon her free one and squeezed it. "We _will_ find a way to break this curse, or whatever it is, Carlotta, I promise you that."

"I know. I know." Carlotta sniffed slightly, and mopped her eyes again. "I wish that my mother were here. I wish that I could tell her about all of this. I think that _she_ would know what to do."

"About our curse? Or about your admirer?"

She said nothing for an instant. "Not so much about any of that, really. It is just that, I remember that she once said that the worst death that a girl could die was one without her mother…"

She tailed off into silence, closing her eyes. Raoul stared at her, only half aware that his mouth was open.

"Carlotta?"

Carlotta said nothing, pulling her hand away and bunching both of them in her lap.

"Carlotta. Carlotta, you _aren't _going to die. Of course you aren't. Don't be so morbid. Don't even think such a thing."

Carlotta did not open her eyes. "How can I not? I am not afraid of death, Raoul, or at least I do not think so. But dying…I do not know if there is pain worse than I have now, but to die of hunger…is it very painful, do you think? And if it does happen, I wish that I could see my family again. There are so many things I want to tell them, now, so many things, and I might never have a chance."

_Oh, for-_

"Don't be…" he began, full of exasperation, but a knock at the door behind them cut him off, and by the time he looked around to the far door a voice was already speaking beyond it, in French but with a definite air of the Mediterranean. "_Signorina? _It is I, Piangi. I am sorry for being later than usual."

"That is all right, _Señor," _Carlotta called over her shoulder swiftly, forcing a smile into her words, as she grasped the box of marzipan and shoved it under a pile of papers. "Please wait and excuse me for one moment. Please," she added to Raoul in an undertone, "I would rather that you would go. I would prefer…"

He understood, and slid off the seat, wincing as he stood up, grasping her hand. "I am going to Defarge now," he muttered. "I will ask him what he has found out. You _will _be cured, Carlotta. We all will be. I give you my word."

Carlotta smiled, and now there was a little warmth in her face – _is it because she believes what I say? Or she is pleased to see me go? Or she is pleased that _he _has come? _"Go," she repeated, softer than before, and let go of his hand.

He hobbled to the door at the other end of the room, opening it with some effort and drawing it to behind him. As he did so, he heard Carlotta call out, _"Sí, _I am _listo!" _and the other door open.

Unpleasant thoughts swirled in his head, where there had only been pleasant ones before. _This is serious now, truly serious. For Carlotta, and for Christine, and the others, for all their sakes, we have to know how to break this spell on us. _Carlotta's words on the continuing iciness of Christine's skin in particular were very horrible to him indeed. The thought of her heat slowly draining from her, just as _something_ had been drained from him by the mirror, was unbearable.

_We wanted to set her free. But we are not free yet, none of us are. _He _is still touching us, he still has some power over all of us. We must break his spell, or none of us will ever be free again. And my darling, my Christine…_

_I _won't_ let him harm her, _he thought, as he stamped along the passage way that led to Defarge's room, defying the pain that he felt in all his limbs and his head and his heart. _I'll _never_ let him hurt her ever again. I hate to even think it, but…Christine was lying when we first spoke after she woke up. He _did _do something to her, he harmed her in some dreadful_ _way. But never again. And if he tries anything…_

…_then there won't be anything in earth or heaven or hell to stop me from destroying him._

He knocked on Defarge's door. _Defarge will have answers, I know it._

But he was shocked by the sight that met his eyes, when the door eventually opened after two more knocks and some aching fingers on his part. If _he_ had looked bad at the end of their retrieval of Christine, then Defarge looked little better. The pastor, still wearign his clothes of the night before, leaned on the door frame like a man twice his age, supporting himself with a slightly trembling hand as if he had ague; his skin was waxy and pale and his face, Lord, his _face _looked as he had looked into the abyss, and the abyss had looked back.

"D…Defarge?"

The priest nodded tiredly at him. "Raoul? What can I do for you at this hour?"

"You said that you would ask – Defarge!" All other questions disappeared from his mind, as he became aware of something else. "Your _wrist!_ What happened?" He stared in horror and not a little disgust at the bandage wrapped heavily and clumsily around the pastor's wrist, stained more than a little with blood. "I…I thought that you could seal your wounds while summoning? What happened?"

"I _could_, once." Defarge rested his head against the door frame, as if acknowledging a defeat. "Raoul…I am cursed, too."

"Oh, Lord, no," he whispered, his throat suddenly dry. "Did you not ask Nadir what to do? Could he not help?"

"I did not have the time to ask anything. My wound bled too freely – I nearly bled to death; I still don't know what saved me, even now. I dare not summon Nadir again, or it really _would_ be my death." Defarge show his head slowly, in deep sorrow. "I am sorry, Raoul. There is…_nothing_ that we can do."

Raoul hardly heard him. The future which had seemed so bright only a little while ago, full of the prospects of his wedding and hope for their affliction, was now dark and horrible indeed to behold, as it leered at him alongside the blood splattered, raging, savage past.

But instead of cowering he glared back, at nothing in particular. He wouldn't let this go on. He _would_ stop it.

"No," he said softly, reaching out and grasping Defarge's shoulder, noticing that they both winced at the contact. "There _is_ one thing we can do. We can be prepared."

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Valiant Raoul, go! You save the girls!**

**Why was Carlotta crying just then, for those of you who can't tell?**

**Well, put it this way; what can _you _think of that's worse than seeing something in front of you that you really, really love, but you know that you can't eat it?**

**_I_ know there are worse things, but in terms of desire, it's pretty hard to think of more than one or two. This is why I secretly feel terribly sorry for hungry ghosts in all types of mythology, whether food turns to ashes when they try to eat, no food can satisfy their hunger, they're driven to eat only disgusting things or reliant on their living relatives to provide them with food to sustain them – as well as all the poor people who don't have enough to eat, and are, in a sense, hungry ghosts themselves. Food is one of the great pleasures of life, so long as you don't overdo it, and dying from lack of it must be agonizing. I can relate to this in a mild way, since when I was much younger I had tonsillitis at Easter (at _Easter,_ of all times!) and my throat was too sore to eat anything, let alone my Easter egg or any of my chocolate goodies. I lay in my bed crying – or rather whimpering, since my throat wasn't really cut out for sobbing like a baby at that point - because I couldn't eat my Easter egg. Isn't it pathetic?**

**Probably the only thing worse than having something in front of you and not being able to eat it is not having _anything_ to eat and thinking incessantly about food. This I can to relate to as well, since in Mongolia last year we had enough to eat on our journey, but we felt that we never ate often enough, and what we _did_ eat was alternations of beans, rice, pasta, tomato sauce and chili sauce. Naturally we began to fantasize about all the things we _did _want to eat, rather than the things we didn't, egged on by our leader during our long, tiring, hot, boring hours of walking along with 70-litre back-packs on our backs in order to 'take our minds off things'; with the result that about half of us nearly went mad with wanting food from home. I think it was hard for me in particular because my mum's such a good cook, and we…weren't very good at it, though we got much better as time went on. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I myself got a craving and a really bad craving at that. And guess what that craving was for?**

**_Fish pie._ **

**I kid you not. In the middle of the Mongolian plains, who knows exactly how many miles from the sea or any substantial water source likely to contain fish, (I rule out the Great White Lake nearby because I couldn't really see myself hiking over loads of mountains to try and catch anything) let alone any potatoes, I was seized with such a yearning for my mum's fish pie I nearly started crying. That's just how bad it was. I hadn't even eaten fish pie in months before then, but the moment I thought of it, I wanted fish pie then as I had never wanted any food before. I wanted it so much that I wrote it down in my diary, and as soon as I got back to the capital I went straight to the internet café nearest to our resort, emailed my mum, and told her just what I wanted to eat the evening I got back home. And guess what? When I came back, she'd made me the biggest fish pie I'd ever seen, and she even put bread crumbs on it!**

**It was just like Hercules having a craving for pea soup in Aristophanes' play _The Frogs_, and Dionysius going down to the Underworld to get a writer for an epic. Only without the singing frogs, of course. (I am impressed. About three thousand years ago, the Ancient Greeks had already invented drag! With all their astronomy and democracy and philosophy, you'd think they had better things to do than go to watch a man playing a god wearing a yellow dress and women's sandals. And then again…maybe not.)**

**All this is yet another reason why I'm dicey about the idea of having kids. I've heard pregnant women get odd urges concerning food, and if they're any odder than wanting fish pie in the absolute middle of nowhere i.e. Mongolia, then they are pretty darn odd. **

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Surprise! One last thing. You might be thinking that, judging by the title of this chapter, the nature of the quote used, as well as the content of the chapter, I am making a statement about one of my favourite treats. Well…no, I'm not. I don't like marzipan. I can never remember a time when I was overly fond of it, and now I like it not a bit. It's odd, because I _love _almonds, and marzipan is made primarily from almonds and sugar. Then again, I did eat a bad almond once, and _aagh, _I tell you, it tasted like really rancid, bitter, disgusting marzipan. I think I lost whatever enthusiasm I had for the sweet at that point. Now I can't even taste it without shuddering.**

**Mind you, marzipan has a jolly interesting history. No one can tell exactly where it was first made. Some people said it started in Persia, others in Italy, others in China and yet more others in Toledo in Spain. Did you know that there's an EU law saying there has to be a minimum almond oil content of 14 and a maximum moisture content of 8.5? And that it was eaten during Ramadan as a special dish? And that it was regarded as something of an aphrodisiac in One Thousand and One Arabian Nights?**

**Seriously; who needs a life, when you can sit and read about all this stuff?**

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Reviews for the half-Irish, spinster, marzipan hating seamstress! (Wow, this sounds more like a lonely-hearts ad than an honorific title. Back to normal next time, me thinks.)**


	50. Wishing you were here

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom or Corpse Bride. Or a cream and white wedding dress.**

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We haven't had a look at Christine for a while, have we? That's odd, considering all the time I devoted to her early one. Why, practically all the chapters in the underground were hers! Well, here she is now, getting married in the morning. Or midday, or whichever you prefer.****

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If I've killed one man, I've killed two-**

**The vampire who said he was you**

**And drank my blood for a year,**

**Seven years, if you want to know.**

**Daddy, you can lie back now.**

**There's a fat black stake in your heart**

**And the villagers never liked you.**

**They are dancing and stamping on you.**

**They always _knew _it was you.**

**Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.**

**_From _Daddy, _by _Sylvia Plath**

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Though my mother was already two years dead**

**Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,**

**put hot water bottles her side of the bed**

**and still went to renew her transport pass.**

**You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone.**

**He'd put you off an hour to give him time**

**to clear away her things and look alone**

**as though his still raw love were such a crime.**

**He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief**

**though sure that very soon he'd hear her key**

**scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.**

**He _knew_ she'd just popped out to get the tea.**

**I believe life ends with death, and that is all.**

**You haven't both gone shopping; just the same,**

**in my new black leather phone book there's your name**

**and the disconnected number I still call.**

**Long Distance, _by_ ****Tony Harrison**

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(This chapter is dedicated to my own dad, whom I love more than anything else in this whole world, except my mum and my sister. I don't believe you should have to choose which one of your family members you love the most. Mind you, my parents are _very_ different – in my mind, I probably got my determination from my mum, my touch-paper temper from my dad - Lucie got Mum's calmness in a potentially bad situation - and my pride from both of them. Those two have a lot to answer for. But I have my dad to thank particularly for helping me to fall _in _love with so much while I was growing up.)****

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Wishing you were somehow here again

The corset of the wedding dress was incredibly hard to move in, Christine had decided very quickly, soon after being virtually strapped into it earlier in the morning. And the skirt was much too large, a cream silk crinoline of nightmarish proportions, making it even harder to be seated. She walked and sat, when she could, in a tightly bound prison of silk and lace, and she hated it, passionately, determinedly.

Now she was sitting, breathing with rather more difficulty than she was used to, at a dressing table, while Cecile made the last arrangements to her hair, her fingers moving briskly through the soft strands with barely a tug or pull. Cecile had attended Madame Giry's charges since she was fifteen and Christine and Meg were sixteen, and all of them knew exactly how the early morning ritual of brushing and styling hair went.

Today, though, was different. Today Cecile was winding her hair into elaborate plaits, and pinning them carefully to the sides of her head. It was very odd indeed to see her face without it being framed by her hair, whether it was pinned lower down at the nape of her neck in a large bun, or free flowing as it had been for such a long time.

She had an odd wish that Cecile would cease her work and unpin her hair and let it flow out again. She wished that she could draw her locks down over her eyes and nose and mouth, enveloped in the sweet smell of herself. She wished that she could go to her wedding with more than a veil of lace to hide her face; so that she could hide from the whole world.

She listened idly to Cecile's talk as the maid deftly wove more of her hair, keeping up a reserved conversation with Meg and Carlotta, sitting on the other side of the room. Fortunately they didn't seem to expect her to join in, which left her free to look at herself in the mirror. It was a small mirror, one that did not affect Meg too much, so long as she didn't look in its direction. And it gave Christine the chance to look at herself properly for perhaps the first time since she had returned, since she had left.

She had to admit, it was not a particularly inspiring sight. Cecile had had to turn to powder and a little paint to restore the colour apparently completely lost since her sojourn in the Land of the Dead. Her skin had always been rather pale from her Swedish blood, but now it seemed _so_ pale it was coloured with blue instead, the blue of blood beneath the skin. Her lips were pale too. She had tried pinching her cheeks once or twice to bring some colour back to her face – it would not do to arrive at her wedding day, of all days, looking like a freshly risen corpse…

_That was in very poor taste._

She raised a hand to her face, to lightly touch her cheek. She was pleased that she could still feel her finger tip through the powder. Well, and why shouldn't she? Cecile had not needed _that _much powder, after all.

No, it was not that. She had not been worried about the powder. She admitted, if only to herself, that she was surprised that she had felt her finger at all.

She had not told the others how very cold she now felt, how cold she had begun to feel ever since she had woken up and had begun to live again. They had noticed how chill her skin had grown, of course, but that was only the surface of the whole terrible matter.

_Why should I speak? _she thought, as she idly traced the contour of her cheek. _What they have had to suffer for me is far, far worse. I can't even begin to think of it. They are in pain, terrible pain, and it is all because of me. Everything is _my_ fault. The least I can do is bear this with as much patience as they do._

So she had said nothing at all about her gradual loss of sense in her skin and her fingers, and other parts of her body as well. It wasn't painful at all, not like the freezing of snow or the pins and needles that came with lost circulation. She could still use her hands, certainly, with just as much dexterity as before, but…well, it made her cringe now to think of how she had pricked her finger on her needle yesterday, and had been fascinated to feel no pain, even morbidly squeezing her finger to let more blood ooze out, before she finally winced for the benefit of those around her. It was quite restful, in a way. The pain in her body had ceased, so that she might concentrate on the pain in her heart.

"Finished!" Cecile drew back her hands at last, and she focused again on her reflection to see that the maid really had done a good job. Cecile certainly didn't belong among dishes and pans! She had even worked a few tiny flowers into the plaits – silk ones, of course, but no less beautiful for their artificiality. She raised her hand further, to pat her hair, and the fact that she barely felt the strands only slightly curbed her pleasure.

_I look…human._

"Thank you, Cecile. You've done a wonderful job."

"Come over here!" Meg called. "Let us see!" While she might tolerate the mirror's presence, she certainly wasn't going to cross the room to stand next to it; so Christine obliged by standing up and going to them, her skirts rustling gently about her as she went. The sunlight shone through the window, catching the shine of the dress spectacularly out of the corner of her eye. Even though she hated the outfit, and would gladly strip it off later, she knew that it flattered her to perfection. Genevieve had said so, when Raoul's sisters had stood in at the fittings earlier in the month, and the final donning of the dress. That had been more than half an hour ago, when the room had been filled with maids chattering happily, pulling tightly at her corset strings, so tightly that she could feel the pain very easily, and pulling her this way and that as Genevieve and Celandine and Madame Giry had looked on, with scrutinizing eyes. Now there was just Christine herself, and Cecile, and Meg and Carlotta, who were smiling at her from their chairs.

"Oh, Christine." Meg rose from her chair, and walked forward slowly, reaching out to take her hands. She looked at her carefully for a long, long time, inhaled, exhaled, and then leaned forward and kissed her softly on the cheek. She was _glad _that she could still feel that. "Oh Christine, you look so _beautiful_."

She would have said something else, but Carlotta was already easing herself up and out of her chair, clutching around her the shawl that she needed much more than Christine did. Slowly she stepped forward too, and she actually put her arms around her, hugging her close. Christine was shocked – she didn't need to be able to feel well to know just how thin Carlotta had grown in the last few days.

"_Tan hermoso," _the Spanish girl murmured, before drawing back. "You look like an angel."

Christine looked down at her hands, biting her lip, hoping no one would see. An angel she might look like, but an angel she most certainly did not feel.

"You've done wonders, Cecile," Meg was saying over her shoulder. "I've never seen Christine's hair look better!"

"Are you insinuating that my hair is anything less than perfect?" It was a deliberate jibe to draw her out, she knew, but she didn't care. It was _good _to laugh! It brought warmth back to her body and her soul.

But she didn't want to laugh for long. She wanted to think. She wanted to be alone, and she said as much. "But, please…I'd like to be left alone for a little while. You could go and see if Madame Giry and Genevieve and Celandine are ready."

She was met with three very blank stares.

_Oh, for- it's not as if I'm going to leap out of the window as soon as the door is closed!_

"Christine," Meg began, and then stopped. But she didn't need to speak; all of them could remember very well what had happened the last time she had gone off on her own.

"Please?" she asked again. "I do not think I will ever be alone again after this – may I _please_ have some time alone?"

There was some tension, and then there was none. The other girls understood, as she had hoped.

When they were gone, Christine walked back to her dressing table, sat down once more – with some effort, again – and opened a drawer on the right of the piece of furniture.

She drew out the pictures.

Nobody knew about these – not even Meg, with whom she otherwise shared everything. Would they understand? Perhaps; perhaps not. They might think that it was touching for a girl to carry pictures of her dead parents with her wherever she went – but this was private. This was not for the eyes of the world. And the world would be shocked if it knew that the picture of her mother was there not for any remembrance on her part, but simply because it complimented her father's picture.

_Why should I mourn a woman I never knew? _she thought, as she opened the hinged frame and the painted faces of her parents stared back at her. _I am grateful to her, but how can I love her? And I am tired of being made in her image._

She had hated it when she was younger, and people had always compared her to her dead and buried mother. She had her mother's eyes, her hair, her smile, her way of walking on her toes, apparently. Was there nothing that was hers, _only_ hers, nothing that did not belong to the woman her father had fallen in love with? Even now, years later, when Madame Giry made such a remark – and often with good reason – it secretly made her flare with rejection of the very idea that she was her mother's replacement. Wickedly, she did not want to be her mother's daughter, not if it meant that she took the woman's place. So she looked only briefly upon the face of the woman who had given birth to her, and instead looked at the man, that picture cupped in her right hand.

_Daddy. Oh, Daddy…_

It was rare that she allowed herself to take out the picture and look upon the man she had loved more than the whole world and everything in it. She did not cry these days when she did it. She had cried all the tears that she could long, long ago, and the anguish of her soul had been a balm to the great wound rent in her heart and mind, when her father was ripped untimely from her. She had soaked her pillows each night until her tears had finally dried, though it had taken more than a year to do so, and during the day she had been a sad little waif indeed.

She had hardly known how to live, without her father. How could she have known? Brought up without a mother, looking to him for all the joy in her life, and he refusing to pass her fully into the hands of a nursemaid – who could wonder that they grew to love each other so very dearly? Their lives had revolved around each other. While they had friends, all that they had truly needed was each other, and nobody else. Few knew of it – the last thing that was needed was the knowledge that the Daaé heir was hysterical for months on end – but his loss had very nearly wrecked her life. After his death she had constantly looked for him whenever she did anything or went anywhere, only to remember that he would not be there and never would be again. The memory of him had haunted her like a ghost. She had had nightmares, she had sleepwalked, searching even in her dreams for the father she had loved and lost. It frightened her deeply now, to think how close she had come to losing her mind from grief.

Now, though, she also had learned to keep her memories of her father where they would not trouble her in waking or sleeping, and only let them come to her when it suited her, for her own safety and peace of mind…such as now. Six years had passed, and her grief was no longer as raw as it had been, nor were her memories as fervent, Truth be told, she went for weeks at a time without thinking of him. She stroked the picture idly, looking at her father's face once again. When had she last done this? It was too long ago. But then, memories of a dead parent surely had no place among the preparations of a wedding.

Well, now they did. Christine's thumb touched her father's painted cheek. She did not regard this picture as a true representation of her father; talking to it would bring no peace, not when she longed for the original all the time. But it gave her comfort, especially now. It was even rarer that she allowed herself to think about that night, the night when her father died – that was guaranteed to make her cry, if nothing else would, yet now she thought of it with a completely dry eye.

She had been old enough to understand why her father was dying, but young enough to still ask emotional, futile questions – _Where are you going? Why are you leaving me?_ _Why can you not stay? _Nobody had had an answer to any of these questions; not the doctor, who had paid little attention to the slightly hysterical child while he had made efforts to make his patient comfortable and, since there was no question of recovery, let him die with less pain and a little more dignity; nor the normally stoic Madame Giry, who had been crying so much that she could not even speak but could still keep Christine back from the very edge of the bed; nor her father, coughing out his last breaths, his gurgling gasps accompanied by fresh gouts of blood.

That was when Christine Daaé had ceased to be a child and had become a woman, in the very worst way possible. Perhaps it was ironic that the very night that her father had died there had been a pain in her stomach, and she had wondered if she was dying and wished only to follow him. But the gouts of blood that came out of _her _were perfectly natural, to her secret disappointment, and would come every month from then on. She had tried to stop her tears as she stopped her bleeding, but there were times when she felt as if she could cry blood itself for her dead father.

Those days were well over. Today, she would be married – and her father, the one who had ensured that it would come about, the one who had given her such a glorious future, was not here to see it. She had told Meg that she had not been pleased that he had done it without truly asking her, but now she was never more grateful to him for it. _If I never knew Raoul…if I never knew my friends…I would have been a much worse person._

And so she allowed herself to miss him, fully, whole-heartedly. She allowed herself to wish he was here again, if only for a little while. She wished that she could run to him, and he would pick her up and hug her, even though she was far too tall now to do what she had done as a little girl…though not _that _tall; her lack of height was supposedly yet another thing she had inherited from her mother. She wished that he could tell her that he would always be with her, in everything she said and did.

That could not be. To carry him with her all the time…was an agony. It would overwhelm her, and destroy her truly. The strength of the love between the two had been so dangerous that it had driven her near to distraction, to the sorrow and despair of Madame Giry and Meg. But in the end, she had survived. She had survived and now, here she was, ready to marry into the de Chagny family.

_I miss you, Daddy. I miss you so much. I miss you every day, truly I do, but I don't allow myself to feel it. Is that foolish of me?_

_I wish that I could hear your voice again, but I know that I never will. I wish that I could see you again, but that will never happen until…until…_

She put the picture frame down, and looked up into the mirror, her eyes suddenly wide. She had never thought of it. All the time she had been there, and she had never thought of it. What if her father…? _No, no. He wouldn't be down there. Not my daddy. He's in heaven, of course he's in heaven! He doesn't deserve to be down there…_

What was she saying? None of the people she had met down there were bad people. Bonejangles was certainly coarse, but he hadn't seemed like a bad man, and Nadir and Ayesha were far better than many of the living people she had met. And Erik…

_No. You promised yourself that you would not think about him. _She had known, after her talk with Raoul, that it was the only safest course. She had to forget the world below, and the mysterious, marvellous one who had taken there. It was either that or go completely insane with her memories of him, and his music that had captured her heart…

_Did I truly just think that?_

But now she _was _thinking such things, her thoughts went on, uncontrollable. _Daddy might have liked Erik; they both loved music, and they both loved…no! Daddy was _nothing _like Erik! _She snapped the frames shut together, and pushed them back into the drawer, slamming it shut. _Erik was…is…Erik. He was himself. He was entirely himself. Nobody will ever be like my father. No one will ever be like Erik. No one will ever be to me what he was. Not even Raoul. Thank goodness._

She leaned her head on her hand, still staring at herself. She truly did wish that her father was here, now. He would know what to do. He would know how to help them all. He would know how to cure them. He would help her to sort out these confused feelings.

_I wish that you could forgive me, for all the things that I have done, for all the lies that I have told. But can you forgive me? Can a father forgive his daughter anything she has done? Anything at all?_

She had deceived. She had conspired. She had lied, to others as well as to herself. And she had done the most terrible, awful thing that was possible. And yet she did not want a priest to confess to, not because she felt no guilt for what she had done, but because she would never be able to gain forgiveness.

It was not Raoul who had made her want to live again. That was one of her many lies. It had been _Erik_. It had been Erik who gave her a voice once more, Erik who had given her passion once more, after her calm, quiet, ordered life; Erik who had made her heart beat faster, whether in fear or something else; it was Erik who had loved her enough – why was that? Why? – to defy laws unquestionable to claim her.

And in leaving him behind in that dark, dank lair underground, she had done something far, far worse, far more cruel and cold and wicked, than anything he had ever done, in life or after it.

_Give me strength, Daddy. Give me the strength I need to live._

A gasp made her look up. Madame Giry was standing in the door way, her usual black abandoned for dove grey silk striped with a darker grey, her hand upon her heart as she stared.

"Madame Giry." She stood up, presenting a full view of herself for her guardian, letting a smile come to her face.

"Oh, my dear child." Madame Giry hurried forward, reaching out her hands to cup Christine's face. "Oh, oh, my dear." There was a shine at the corners of her eyes. "I didn't want to say earlier, but…oh, you look so beautiful. Your mother and father would be so proud of you now. Your mother especially."

"Really?" She had to work hard not to set her teeth.

"Yes, she would." Madame Giry smiled softly, to her surprise. "You think I do not notice when you hide your mortification when you are compared to your mother? I know you, Christine Daaé. And, like it or not, the people who knew and loved your mother will always see her in you. But not just her outward beauty, Christine." The older woman stroked her cheek. "You have your mother's courage, her grace, her boldness. You may think that you never knew her, but you knew her well enough for her love to touch you."

There was definitely water brimming at the corners of her eyes now. "I knew that I would cry. My mother cried all day on my wedding day, and I cried on your mother's wedding day. The happiest day of your life, and yet everyone is in tears. Where is the sense in that?"

"Madame Giry," she whispered, and then she leaned forward and put her arms around her guardian of six years. "Thank you, so much. Thank you for being as good as a mother to me. I love you, and I will sorely miss you."

"Christine, I-"

But whatever Madame Giry had to say was interrupted, as at that moment more rustling, clucking shapes came through the door. Genevieve and Celandine, dressed in all their glory, had come to behold the completed bride, and were very pleased with what they saw indeed, making her turn this way and way, touching her hair and noting with approval the good job Cecile had done. Meg and Carlotta had followed, clad in the finished finery of bridesmaids, with Meg carefully guiding Carlotta back to the arm chairs.

Christine managed to escape from her future sisters-in-law, who had engaged Madame Giry in conversation about her own wedding day and what she had worn, and walked quickly over to where Meg was now helping Carlotta to sit down.

Meg looked up quickly. "Christine? Did Mother have a chance to speak to you?"

"Yes." Christine idly stroked her lace cuff. Despite their closeness, she did not really wish to speak about had been, essentially, a farewell.

"Did she ask about your condition?"

_What? _She stared at Meg, as did Carlotta. "Meg, how does…you _told _her?!"

"Yes," Meg said bluntly, tucking Carlotta's shawl about her more firmly. "I told her about all of us, and everything that had happened." Carlotta squirmed under her gentle fingers.

"You can stop that, Meg. I am not quite an invalid yet. And why did you tell your mother, of all people?"

Meg pouted, as she drew back in offence, her dress murmuring, reflecting her annoyance. "You make it sound as if Mama is stupid. She isn't. She knows what to say and when to say it. And she knows lots of things." She looked over at where Madame Giry was talking to the two sisters, her face lively and animated and her head inclined in the charming way she did so well; when Meg turned her own face back again, it was filled with purpose. "She knows something very important, Christine. She told me the morning after you came back, and we've decided that you should know, now, while there's still time."

Christine was caught by the urgency of Meg's voice, and leaned closer so that she should not miss one word. Something important? About what? "About…about Erik?" She hardly dared name him here, in her own bedroom, only an hour or so before her wedding.

"Yes!" Meg leaned forward as well. "Mama knows who he was when he was alive, and why he died; she said that he was hunted down and killed not far from here." The news was not as much a surprise to her as she had expected, though it was considerably calmer than Bonejangles' gruesome song, but it still shook her to know that someone, someone she knew at that, knew who Erik had been in life. Meg went on, ignoring her apparent lack of surprise. "The story Buquet told us, you remember? Well, it was true. It was all true. _Erik is_ the ghost in the woods. And Mama knows who killed him as well, or at least who ordered him dead."

Meg drew breath to speak more, but the chatter in the room was interrupted by Cecile's voice from the doorway. "Excuse me, ladies?"

Christine and Meg, distracted, turned to see, of all things, Cecile walking slowly into the room, carrying a loaded tray with no less than _six_ glasses upon it, all seemingly full, and a wine bottle as well. The maid peeped anxiously over the top of her load, as the bottle wobbled slightly.

Christine decided to take the initiative – after, Cecile was her maid. "Cecile, what is this?"

"A gift from the men of the house, mademoiselle" Cecile said quickly, stepping forward. "The Comtes' and the Vicomte were toasting the wedding to come, and they thought that the ladies should have a chance to do so as well." She held out the tray. Now Christine could see that at least three of the glasses were stamped with respective seals of the main titles of the family currently residing in the house, as well as three other plainly but intricately carved ones. All of them were filled with red wine.

"Red?" asked Genevieve, who had bustled up as well, and was staring at the glasses with some confusion. "He expects us to toast with red wine?"

"Yes, Madame," Cecile said quietly, bowing her head. "The Comte Philippe the Elder said that there would be enough champagne at the wedding lunch without having it before hand."

Drinking the toast was more difficult than Christine had anticipated. For a start each glass appeared to be intended for a specific hand. Christine received, as the Vicomte's bride-to-be, the glass with the de Chagny crest upon it; Genevieve's glass had the du Cahrbourg crest, and Celandine the crest of the du Barry. Carlotta, Madame Giry and Meg, not seen as members of any particular family, made do with plain glasses. Even then Meg made a great fuss about Christine spilling so much as a drop of wine upon her flawless, hated dress, so she drank much of the toast with Meg holding her handkerchief under her hand and chin.

She felt like such a child. She felt so lonely, and helpless, and afraid. Would Meg have a chance to tell her what she wanted to know? She doubted that they would have time alone again together enough for that. She wanted, so desperately, to know.

_I want to know why you died, Erik._

Carlotta had already drained her glass, and when she looked pleadingly at her, she broke with decorum and passed over her own barely touched glass as well, not fearing the disapproval of the elder women since they were busy making the final adjustments to her wedding veil. Or at least, Genevieve and Madame Giry were. Celandine, she saw to her surprise, had drained her own glass as well, and had now sat heavily down in one of the armchairs, staring into the empty fireplace.

"Don't drink too much," she murmured, as Carlotta tipped the glass back, drinking thirstily. "You'll get drunk at this rate."

"I doubt it," Carlotta replied softly. "And even if I do, I cannot attend the wedding lunch in any case, so I might as well enjoy myself now."

That stung Christine. It was _her _fault that Carlotta had to resort to drinking large amounts of wine to get any nourishment. It was _her _fault that Meg never looked towards that area of the room where her mirror was. It was her fault that Raoul had probably winced in agony even as he had lifted his glass, nervously hoping the dye in his hair hadn't already worn off.

And it was her fault that Erik might well hate her now…hate her enough to kill her, and all those she loved.

_Now I'm just being silly. Erik would _never _hurt me. Never. He can't get to me. He is dead, and I am alive. He cannot ever reach me again._

She was startled by the dull feel of something being placed upon her head, and a cascade of lace falling down in front of her eyes. Celandine stepped into her muffled view, smiling gently, her face tired but full of warmth. "They had finished it, and I asked that I be the one to put it on." And if Christine had been startled before, it was nothing now when Celandine, who had always been so distant even when she was a child, who had hardly spoken two words to her since she had first come, threw her arms around her and hugged her tight.

"I know I have not been as I was, Christine. I hope that might change." Celandine drew back and her eyes, from what Christine could see through the veil, were shining brightly. "You're a good and kind and brave woman, Christine. I'm proud that you're my sister."

And Christine bent her head, confident that the veil would shield her face from anyone seeing, when all she wanted to do was weep her heart out. She wanted to sink down upon the floor, and pull all the finery that she didn't deserve off, and cry until she could cry no more.

_I want…I want my daddy. I want him so much._

_I want to say sorry. I'm sorry for all that I've done, all the terrible things I've done. I'm a wicked person. I don't deserve to be happy. I don't even deserve to live._

But she could not think like this. She did deserve to live, for Raoul, and for Meg, and for everyone that she loved. She had to live for herself, so that she might atone for what she had done.

She took the lace gloves that Genevieve held out to her. Meg already held her bouquet, ready to carry down the aisle, and as she finished slipping on the gloves she handed it to her. To her surprise, Meg winked; she could only hope that this meant she would tell Christine what she wanted to know later.

Christine looked around at the women who surrounded her. Meg, Carlotta, Cecile, Madame Giry, Genevieve, Celandine. Bold, proud, timid, wise, arrogant, loving, weak, faithful, determined, ignorant, aware; each one urging her to live in their own way.

_This is my time now._

She sighed softly, now thinking of that painted face in the drawer, the blue eyes still shining at her. _Help me too, Daddy._

_Help me to say goodbye._

**

* * *

My, Christine isn't too friendly towards her mum, is she? Then again, looking like your dead mum isn't exactly great in fiction. I mean, it might cause your dad to fall in love with you when you grow up because of some stupid promise he made his wife on her death bed about only marrying somebody as beautiful as her, and wanting to marry you, and you running away after you've gotten a few really pretty dresses and a cloak of furs or skins out of the deal, and hiding in a prince's palace to hide from your incestuous dad; and I really read too many fairy stories, don't I?**

**Anyway, I think this is the good place to have a little rant about parents in stories – most specifically, in epics, or epic films. Think of all the times a young man has been brought up by foster parents in the wilderness and has had his true destiny revealed to him i.e. something like a mysterious stranger coming along and saying, "Oh, yes, your father was so-and-so. He was this and this and this. The bee's knees, is what I'm trying to imply here. Here's his really big sword, which he was obviously compensating for something with. He even gave it a name! Now go and avenge his death, or defeat a dark lord, or whatever floats your boat." All well and good so far. But has anyone heard of this situation when the boy asks, "What about my mother? You know – my mother? The woman who carried me in her womb for nine months? The woman who pushed me out between her legs, both of us screaming all the way? Did she die giving birth to me, or open a hairdresser's, or what?"**

**Let's take a rather famous example. Luke Skywalker gets a big revelation about his father in _A New Hope_, even though his reaction to the even bigger paternal revelation in _The Empire Strikes Back _will be far more entertaining. Coming to you live from Ben's rock house:**

**Ben (or Obi Wan, whatever suits you): Your father wasn't a space pilot after all; he was a Jedi knight who went about the galaxy keeping the peace and generally being groovy. Well, right up until he got squelched by Darth Vader, who killed anyone who was daft enough to turn their backs on a guy dressed all in black with an asthmatic mouth-guard.**

**Luke: Wow. Hey, watch me cut dust motes with my father's spiffy light sabre! **

**And that, as far as I know, is _it_. Luke doesn't even _begin _to wonder about his mum (at least on screen) until _Return of the Jedi, _and that's only because he's found out that he and Leia are twins and Vader's their father, and they need to share the love. (And if I've just ruined all three films for you then I'm sorry, but it's something you should automatically know anyway. Like E.T. wants to phone home, Jaws gets accompanied by dramatic chords whenever he munches someone into chum - which I should think puts him off a bit - _Psycho_ has a rather nasty shower scene that put the actress involved off showers and chocolate sauce for life, and _The Lord of the Rings_ is chockfull of really beautiful people with pointy ears or really short people with pointy ears _and_ big hairy feet. Those films were good, but _too many people had pointy ears!_)**

**The point of all this – there's a point? Oh, goody – is that children often seem to be closer to the parent of their gender in stories, even if they've never met them. Is it automatic, do you think? Do you think people who make up stories think that children gravitate to their mother or father, depending on what gender they are?**

**Maybe not. But human nature is a funny thing. Perhaps the child is more likely to imprint upon the parent who will teach it what it needs to live. Plus in the old days boys were more thank likely to inherit their father's title, or business or whatever, and so have to live up to their expectations, while the girls learn spinning and household affairs from their mothers – if they're not rich enough to get handed to a nanny straight away.**

**But I really think it's a good thing when a child had a good relationship with both its parents, not just its mother or its father. This is partly why I love _A Little Princess _by Frances Hodgson Burnett so much. Even though Sara gets potentially spoiled by her dad, they love each other so much its beautiful. Come on, everyone, give both your parents a big hug! (Unless you don't want to, which is entirely up to you.)**

**

* * *

Incidentally, despite the fact I have little to no idea on how weddings work, having only been to about one in my life and never having been a bride's maid (and I'm not bitter about that at _all, _by the way), I _do_ know that only brides are supposed to wear the veils across their faces, and not if you're taking your First Communion. Which is just as well, since if there was a row of little girls dressed up in white dresses and lacey gloves _and _with veils across their faces…a _little _too like _The Handmaid's Tale._****

* * *

A note on crinolines; since, as I've said before, this is in the late 1860s, crinoline's would have been all the rage at this point – big iron cages to hold the skirts out, so ladies often looked like walking circus tents. However, by the 1870s crinolines were out, and great big bustles that made your bottom look like it was about to burst were the big fashion. They had some very strange ideas in the 19th century. I've considered that our girls would probably all be wearing crinolines, and so wouldn't be able to move around very easily, let alone go riding or kneel on the carpet vomiting their guts out – and then I decided to ignore it, since this is a story, and it doesn't necessarily have to make sense. (Says she who turned Erik into a zombie – a hot zombie, but a zombie nonetheless.)****

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And also, Sylvia Plath's poem doesn't really reflect Christine's feelings towards her father- it's just symbolic of a final farewell to her childhood, and perhaps an attempt to say a special goodbye to someone else, too. Mind you, I find it hard to trust the point of view of someone who eventually stuck her head in a gas oven anyway.****

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I'm getting excited. The next chapter will be a long one, and I've been waiting to write it for nearly two years now. So, I will leave you all in anticipation.****

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Review, please! The tension is mounting for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	51. The Uninvited

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the opera, or Corpse Bride. I _down_ the mad joy at finally getting this chapter done.**

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Well, here it is – the chapter I've been waiting for, nearly two years of my life. The denouement. The revelation. The confrontation. And, yes, leading on to that inevitable death Erik was talking about a few chapters back. (Dang, I'm just like J.K. Rowling, aren't I?)**

**Plus, a really big homage to _Phantom _in general, which I really think no phantom fan-fiction should be without.**

**Are you sitting comfortably? Then, after the warning, we'll begin. And yes, this _is_ a warning. Bizarre, really, but there you are. I don't want to get flamed by people for not having warned them in advance, so I'm taking the initiative and staking out my territory while I have the chance. I don't like being told I'm sick. I _know _I can be just a little morbid, sometimes; I don't need people telling me as if I _didn't_ know. Okay, thanks. Read on.**

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Warning: This chapter contains some 'potentially' distressing material. I do truly apologise in advance for any offence that might be caused while reading this.**

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'**Mr Wraxall, I can tell you this one little tale, and no more – not any more. You must not ask anything when I have done. In my grandfather's time – that is, ninety-two years ago – there were two men who said: "The Count is dead; we do not care for him. We will go tonight and have a free hunt in his wood"…Well, those that hear them say this, they said: "No, do not go; we are sure you will meet with persons walking who should not be walking. They should be resting, not walking."**

**Count Magnus, by M.R. James.**

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Of all bad deeds that, under cover of darkness, had been committed within wide London's bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was the foulest and most cruel.**

**Oliver Twist _by _Charles Dickens**

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Chorus: Why do you cry out thus, unless at some vision of horror?**

**Cassandra: The house reeks of death and dripping blood.**

**Chorus: How so? 'Tis but the odour of the altar sacrifice.**

**Cassandra: The stench is like a breath from the tomb.**

**Aeschylus's _Agamemnon_**

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The Uninvited

The ball room could not possibly look more different from the dances held there only a few nights before. Then everything had been rich and vibrant and decadent; bright colours and dark drapes had reigned supreme. But now everything was dominated by soft, gentle colours; the normal red velvet drapes had been replaced with light blue ones, and there were flowers simply _everywhere; _by the doors, leading up the sides in the gap left between the many chairs she would walk between to reach the dais at the far end of the hall, adorning the chairs themselves, hung from the walls. The servants had done a masterful job – the ball room looked now almost like a meadow.

A meadow filled with well bred cattle, come to graze and gaze as a young heifer was added to their herd.Christine had never before seen the room look so quiet when it was so full – but then, she doubted it had been used for such an occasion as this, either. Dancing was often high on the list of entertainments when invited to stay at this particular mansion – weddings were far less frequent.

"This is not proper," Carlotta muttered behind her, as she pulled her shawl tighter about her. "The ceremony should be taking place in a place of worship, not a room for dancing and flirting. What is the Comte thinking of?"

"This is his house, and his grandson he's marrying off – I should think that what he says goes," Meg said cheerfully. She was obviously brightening up at the prospect of entering the great room – thanks to the soft colours in abundance it looked even larger than normal, and there were no mirrors anywhere in the room either before or after its unique decoration.

Christine kept very quiet. It would be best if she did not speak. She felt so nervous now, and yet so excited at the same time, she wouldn't have known what to say anyway. This was it. Comte Philippe would escort her up the aisle, or what passed for the aisle, in only a few minutes, and she would walk back down it a married woman, with her husband at her side. Oh, she was so scared! But so, so eager as well!

She would think of nothing now, and nothing else, except her wedding. Peeping around the edge of the doors, she could already see Raoul standing on the raised platform, clad in a military uniform even though he had only spent a year or so in the army – and thank God it had not crushed his dear spirit - his hair shining in the sunlight, his face tired but (she could just see) smiling widely. Oh, she would happily spend the rest of her life with that man…

_But what about after life?_

She banished that thought, and all thoughts that accorded with it. This was her wedding day, and there was no more fear to be had now. Her childhood was over; this was the beginning of the golden years of her life.

She smiled at Cecile, even though she was unsure if the maid could actually _see_ her smile; her veil was very thick, after all. But she felt a little guilty on behalf of her maid. While Meg and Carlotta after following her up the aisle as bridesmaids would sit at the very front, on two chairs set aside for them and not part of the main audience, Cecile would have to remain at the back of the ballroom with mot of the other servants of the household, who the Comtes were generously allowing to watch the ceremony. She felt it was very hard – after all, it was partly thanks to Cecile that she was standing here now – but what could she say that would warrant her maid sitting with the nobility? Nothing that would be of any use. But Cecile returned her smile, which cheered her. Truth be told, she had grown very fond of Cecile indeed. It would be as hard to leave her behind as it would be her other friends; she would most likely stay with Meg after the marriage, and she would hire a new maid, or several new maids.

She felt a squeeze on her arm, and looked around into Meg's smiling face. She hoped that Meg might want to finish off what she had started to tell her, but such was not the case. "Here comes the Comte. This is it, Christine!"

Christine turned to smile as Comte Philippe limped closer, and graciously offered her his arm. She was going to be married, and oddly, she had never felt so joyous and so sad in all her eighteen years.

* * *

The room was beautiful, even if Renée agreed with Carlotta's views stated earily in the day, that the ceremony _should_ be held in a church, according to social decorum. But then again, she knew why _that _would never happen…

Christine looked truly wonderful as she made her way down the aisle, passing numerous nobles dressed in varying stages of pastels in the case of the women and black wedding suits in the case of the men. Even behind the veil she held herself tall and straight, though she could do little to challenge the Comte's height, even with his limp.

She felt so much pride as she watched her surrogate daughter reach the dais that had been erected near the far end of the room, where she stood along with Genevieve and Celandine. She was glad that Christine's father and mother had placed their trust in her. Truly, she was gladder than she would ever be able to say.

But there was a pang at her heart as she watched her own little Meg and poor Carlotta walk after her. Carlotta looked worse than ever; her cheeks looked almost sunken, and her hair was lank even with a maid's attention. And Meg's smiles could not hide the latent fear in her eyes.

_My little Meg…_

There was no sense in pining, when there was nothing she could do. She had told Meg all that she should know, and she could only wish that she had passed the knowledge onto Christine. She hoped fervently that such was the case; and prayed that Defarge, the priest which they all spoke so highly of, almost as a friend, would have found a solution.

She watched the Comte hand Christine up onto the dais, to stand opposite Raoul, who look extremely handsome in his black velvet, smiling despite the weariness she now knew he was plagued by. She watched as his grandfather went and stood by his grandson on the far side of the room. Philippe the Younger turned to look at him, and then his eyes looked beyond the elder Comte, right at-

Hurriedly she tore her eyes away, looking once more at the two figures, one black, one white, both deeply in love. She could not help sighing, as Defarge bade the congregation be seated – save the servants watching at the back. When was the last time she had been to a wedding, and smiled at the sight of a husband and wife to be? It had been too long. Certainly not since Georges had passed away. She sighed again, this time in sadness.

"Madame Giry? Is anything the matter?" Genevieve was looking at her with quiet concern, while Celandine stared fixedly ahead, biting her lip. She shook her head with a smile, for the ceremony was already beginning.

Defarge spoke for some time. Renée had forgotten much of the marriage ceremony, and it was all relatively new to her. She found herself paying little attention, no matter how hard she forced herself to try. Then it was Raoul's turn to speak. As he began, she was pleasantly surprised. Over the last week he had _definitely _improved in his diction and his remembrance. He recited from heart, a small smile on his lips as he spoke. Then again, after what he had experience, she would not expect anything other from the one who had recited the words necessary to release Christine. It was still hard for the more rational side of her mind to believe it, but it was true. She could just see Christine's smile as well, behind her veil.

But as Raoul finished speaking, there was a sudden, sharp noise from beside her. She looked around in alarm, as Celandine suddenly put a hand to her stomach, then both hands. She bit her lip, and the she gasped again. _"Ah!"_

"Celandine? What is it?" Already Genevieve was leaning over towards her sister, putting her ear to Celandine's mouth. From what she could see of her face, it changed dramatically at whatever Celandine said. At once she stood up, attracting the attention of all, not just those (herself included) who had watched curiously while Celandine apparently suffered in silence.

"My apologies," she barked out to the startled ensemble, including Raoul and Christine, who had turned slightly to see what was going on, bemusement clear on Raoul's face and certainly present in Christine, even if it was unseen. "My sister is in discomfort. We must leave."

As she stared, Genevieve pulled her sister up ungraciously and led her hurriedly towards a side door leading off the ball room; one of the maids from the back of the hall, probably Celandine's, hurrying forward from her place to run after them. Genevieve pushed the door open when she reached it and almost dragged her sister through, the maid following swiftly behind them. The door banged shut as the audience began to mutter amongst themselves, wondering at this sudden exodus on the part of the sisters.

Renée, turning around in her seat, saw the two Philippes' sitting side by side, and looking as confused as everyone else. She was too slow to avoid the younger Comte's eye as he abruptly looked over in her direction again, and only stared at him proudly, before turning back at Defarge's cough, attempting to continue with the interrupted ceremony.

As Christine began to speak in her turn, her voice sweet and sincere, she shivered inside her fine dress.

_Why is it suddenly so cold in here?_

* * *

Celandine collapsed in Genevieve's arms only a little way down the hallway, pulling at her and dragging her down with her. Both of them hit the floor hard, knocking the breath out of her, and Celandine gasped in pain and lay flat, sobbing and panting like a beaten dog, a scolded child. The maid, giving a frightened squeak, attempted to pull Genevieve upright, but she smacked her away, all her attention on her poor little sister as she keened in agony.

"Genevieve, help me, oh God, _please!_"

"We can't stop here, Celandine!" she whispered, forcing herself onto her hands and knees, her elaborate dress hindering her movement. "We have to get you to a bed, quickly!"

"No! Please, _please,_ help me!" Celandine reached out and grasped her wrist. "Genevieve, please, just…my legs…" She gestured helplessly to her billowing skirts. Genevieve looked properly at the woman lying in agony on her side, and for the first time saw the beginning of a dark stain emerging on the front of her dress.

_No._

The maid had run away by now, obviously trying to find someone who could help the writhing mistress, though thankfully not back into the ball room in her panic. Genevieve crawled over to her, pulled up the outer skirts, and her fingers met wet cloth. Celandine's petticoats were drenched with dark red, and there was a deep iron smell, like the tang of courses but even more so. Celandine gasped again as another spasm twisted her trembling frame; her eyes, meeting Genevieve's, were wide with pain and fear.

It was the last thing she wanted to do, but what choice did she have? She fumbled with the sodden bloomers, saying words no noblewoman should know under her breath, pulling and actually tearing the soaked cloth in her frenzy; and at last they yielded to her efforts and Celandine's legs and everything above them were laid bare, streaming with dark blood. The smell by this time was more than that of the river of life; it was the stink of clotted death. Blood poured over her fingers, but it was still too liquid to be any true sign of what was happening within her sister's traumatised body.

She crawled up to her sister's head where it lay on the floor. Her blood-stained hand found Celandine's and let itself be squeezed until it lost feeling, and her free arm curled around Celandine's quivering shoulders, holding her up, otherwise she might fall into a pool of her own blood, and heaved her into her own lap and let her back rest against her breast. She could feel the dampness of her sister's skin and her rapidly unravelling hair against her cheek, she was dripping with sweat.

"It hurts." Celandine whispered, as another ripping cramp tore through her, making them both shudder.

"I know, love. I know. But it will be over soon."

Her only reply was a moan as Celandine's nails dug into her soft, sweating palm. She squeezed back and bit her lip and blinked the moisture out of her eyes, and waited for the inevitable emergence of something more than blood from between her sister's heaving, shaking legs. The servants had lit the lamps in this room, but there were shadows encroaching around them, no matter how hard she blinked; and most of all, impossibly, they clustered around Celandine, as if waiting hungrily for whatever would spew out of her.

They did not have to wait long; it was very quick, in the end. Celandine rasped and panted as if she was dying of thirst, and then she suddenly squealed like a gutted pig, and then she squealed again. With a great rush Genevieve saw something huge and dark and wet and solid tear itself out of her and fall on the already swimming marble floor. She was dimly pleased to see that it was not as she had feared and been haunted by in her nightmares, not a recognisable form that stared up with baleful, lifeless eyes at its murderers, but simply a black mess of blood more solid than the fluid around it, the ruined contents of a now empty womb.

_It is over. Thank God, it is finally over._

As if those two squeals had robbed Celandine of her speech, she was silent now, not even gulping for air. She was silent as Genevieve stolidly pulled off her ruined bloomers and gently packed strips of untouched petticoat between her legs to stop the bleeding, and she said nothing when she carefully pulled down her skirts again, making certain that she was fully decent once more. She said nothing when Genevieve put her hands under her arms and dragged her steadily backwards, to lean against the opposite wall further down the hall, away from what had spilled out of her, leaving a trail of blood which marked their progress across the floor like the mucus of a gigantic snail. She said nothing when Genevieve pulled her own shawl, which she had lost when they had first collapsed, tight around her and fastened it with her breast pin. She said nothing when Genevieve left her for a moment and padded back across the floor, her shoes soaked, to regard the dark mess upon the marble, still faintly warm from its mother's body.

She had thought that she could perhaps - break it up with something, anything, giving the impression that it was simply darker blood; but now the very idea was far more repulsive to her than what lay before her. It was itself revolting enough, to but actually touch it, to mangle it – she could not do that, would not do it. She thought that she could actually see it squirming, in a grim parody of life, but she convinced herself that it was simply her extremely overactive imagination, wound to breaking point at this moment. She contented herself with placing Celandine's discarded, partially soaked shawl over it, hiding it from the sight of Celandine and anyone who would come to see what had caused her outcry.

Wearily she made her sticky way back to her sister. As she crouched down beside her, skirts billowing up, she saw that Celandine had closed her eyes and her head was bent low. She feared that she might have fainted from exhaustion; but then as she reached out to her Celandine finally spoke.

"Genevieve? Is it…dead?"

"Yes. Yes, it is." Of course she did not add what was nevertheless going through her head at these absurd words: _Of course it's dead, what did you expect? _And then she felt ashamed, since she had feared the same thing herself; a living, half-formed being that expired in front of them, mutely cursing them for its death.

Celandine nodded dumbly before she began to cry; not the choking sobs of pain and fear that were half gasps of agony and half desperate gulps for air, but the near silent tears of absolute grief. Water leaked from the corners of her eyes and ran down her blood smeared cheeks, and she brought her stained hands up to her face and rocked to and fro slightly, breathing deeply and crying all the while.

Genevieve longed to put her arms around her little sister to comfort her, but she knew that now was not the time. The last thing Celandine would want now was to be touched or held when she had lost something that she had carried for a precious time, whether she had cared for it or not. Their own mother had miscarried again and again before she had finally managed to come into her time of fertility by bearing Philippe, and she had learned that the young comtess had locked herself away in her room for days at a time when her hopes had been washed away in blood. How very ironic, then, that her daughters should in the end have come to this.

"Celandine, you have nothing to weep for. You made your decision, in the end, and you kept to it," she said quietly, trying to calm her sister with words rather than with touch. "Celandine, do not weep like a frightened girl. You are braver than that. You are fearless in a way that I shall never know."

"I am not." Celandine raised her tear-streaked face from her hands, her eyes already red and swollen with her weeping. "I am not brave. How can I be brave? How can I, when…" She closed her eyes, and choked.

"But you took the drink I gave you, after all you said…oh, Celandine, why did you have to take it _now,_ now, of all times? Could you not have waited longer?"

"I _didn't!_" Celandine shook her head violently, her eyes still closed, as if refusing to open them and look at the stain soaking through the shawl that hid the horrible mess under it. "Genevieve, that's what I've been trying to say. I _didn't_ take it. I _didn't._ How could I? How could I _do_ that? I didn't have the courage _or _the will."

The news was so abrupt that she could do nothing more than stare at Celandine, until she managed a whisper. "Celandine, what…are you sure?"

"Do you think I would be unsure about this?!" Celandine spat savagely, her eyes flashing open for an instant and glaring at her, before shutting again in exhaustion.

"But then…how…" The shadows were growing, as was this whole horrible nightmare.

"Genevieve, don't you _see_?" her little sister groaned, wracked with more than physical pain. "Somebody else gave it to me without my knowing, somehow. Somebody knew. They knew about me, they knew about the drink, they knew where I kept it; they found it and they gave it to me without me knowing. They knew. Somehow, _somehow,_ they _knew."_

The horror in Genevieve's mind was building steadily at the meaning of this; soon her mind would begin to howl. "Heaven help us," she muttered. "What do we do now?"

"What do we _do?_ What _can _I do? You said it's over, and it _is!" _Celandine clasped her arms around her belly, and sobbed out loud. When she spoke again, her voice was more quiet, but harsh with grief bordering on sheer insanity. "They've won, we've lost. _I've_ lost. And they…they killed my baby. They killed it. My baby…"

And then Celandine opened her eyes, and threw back her head, and she screamed and screamed and screamed.

* * *

Far away, she could hear a woman wailing. The poor creature sounded as if she were in agony, agony that ripped her apart, piece by piece. It was horrible to hear. She longed to get away from it. She longed to feel her belly full again, not from eating but from the weight of a being she could love and who would love her back. She longed to be warm again, and not warm from the wetness on her face and her hands and body.

_Mother, mother, you have murdered me!_

She wanted it back. She wanted to take it all back. But she couldn't. She could never, ever take it back, and she knew that it was all over, that nothing would ever help her again, that she would be alone forever, because she had lost her baby.

The woman went on shrieking from far away, and it took a while for her to realise that the wetness on her face was tears mixed with blood, and the screams were coming from her own mouth.

* * *

Blood called them forth. Blood and injustice, and a woman's shrieks.

The dam burst.

* * *

When the screams abruptly began Defarge almost dropped his prayer book in shock, and more than one lady in the audience gave a little shriek of her own as the wails unfolded throughout the great room. They tore through Christine's ears, stopping her speech in her mouth, making her shiver as she turned slightly to see where those awful sounds were coming from. Those cries, they couldn't possibly be from a human throat, so wild and howling like a dog in agony, like a vixen screeching and caught in a trap. They were filled with such pain and loss that they deeply frightened her; the demented wails of a heart broken and gone insane.

But if they made her shudder, then they struck Raoul like a blow; out of the corner of her clouded vision she saw him take a step backwards and his face suddenly crease in pure horror.

"Celandine!" the Vicomte hissed, his eyes so wide the whites melted into the white of her own veil. "No!_ Celandine!"_

He made to step forward and off the dais, disregarding the ceremony utterly. She turned in alarm to watch him go, as the knowledge he had just imparted in such a striking way sank in; and in doing so she saw something that made her want to scream as well. She _would_ have screamed, she would have screamed until she was sick to her gut, if she had been able to make any sound louder than a strangled creak.

_How can this be? How can it? This isn't true. It _isn't _true…_

But no matter how many times she repeated the mantra to herself it didn't change the fact that there was someone sitting in the seat that Raoul had so recently vacated. A certain someone wearing slightly decayed black dress clothes and a black cloak lined with what had once been white silk, long turned yellow. Someone whose white porcelain mask gleamed in the light, and whose yellow eyes glowed with a hidden fire as he stared back at her in admiring fascination, stripping away everything in its path, distance and veil and flesh and bone included, leaving her bare and shaking before his gaze.

She did not even know that her bouquet had slipped through her ignorant fingers until she heard the gentle thud as it softly hit the floor.

Those eyes had haunted her in her dreams, both waking and sleeping, and she could do no more than to murmur the name of their owner. _"Erik…"_

Raoul shouldn't have heard her. But he _did_ hear her, and he stopped and turned to see what her hidden face was looking at; and he hissed again, a savage noise, full of anger and violence and hatred. The assembled guests began to mutter at the intrusion of this unexpected guest, and then gasped as one as Raoul pulled a pistol out from under his jacket _oh God where did he get that? _and pointed it directly at Erik, ready to fire. One man who loved her ready and willing to shoot another who loved her; her heart hammered with the terror she felt pouring through her body. She put her hand on her silk covered breast to try to make it beat slower.

She saw Erik's lips curl in a smile as he reclined easily in the chair, one leg tucked gracefully behind the other, his head leaning on his sable clad hand. How could this be? Not only was he here, but he looked almost living, as if he had never died and gone through hell at all. His cheeks bloomed with colour and health, and his yellow eyes shone like flames in lamps, twinkling with dark amusement at her surprise and the horror and shock around him.

"Good morning, Christine," he said abruptly, and all the whisperings and mutterings stopped as the inhabitants of the hall fell silent to listen in wonder to an angel's voice upon earth. "I would reason that you are pleased to see me, judging by the delightful accompaniment your heartbeat makes to your breathing."

She had no chance to reply, as Raoul took a step forward, his eyes narrowed. "You demon! You _devil! _You dare to come here, _here, _after you…what have you done to Celandine, Erik?! What have you done to my sister?!"

Erik finally took his eyes off her, to her intense relief, and instead gazed coolly upon Raoul, which brought her terror again. What would her demon lover do to her fiancée, her Vicomte? "I did nothing to your sister, Vicomte de Chagny. Perhaps you should ask someone nearer to home about what has happened to poor, dear Celandine. However, what is done is done." He made a movement forward, as if he would get up; but Raoul aimed the gun right at his face, his hand completely steady and his face hard.

"No, Erik. Stay where you are. Don't come any closer, or by God I'll put your glowing yellow eyes out for you!"

"Raoul!" The cry came unbidden, unexpected. "Raoul, please, please don't shoot!" She stretched out a hand, as if he still might be saved. If he did not fire that gun he would remain pure, her own dearest beloved; but if he fired and spilled Erik's undead blood, then that blood would be on him forever more, she just knew it.

"Never argue with a lady, Vicomte. They're always right." Erik straightened and stood, his cloak rustling about him. "Besides, do you really think that _that _little toy could hurt me?"

Raoul continued to glare, as he moved to step in front of her, his free arm gently urging her backwards. "I don't know, but I'm willing to try it. Keep away from us, Erik. I won't let you hurt us any more."

She couldn't let this happen. Erik would soon stop playing and unsheathe his claws, if this went on. Swiftly she evaded Raoul's grasp and hurried forward, ignoring his desperate touch upon her wrist, and walked slowly up to Erik, stopping a few paces away from him. She only hoped that he could not see her eyes through her veil as she spoke.

"How did you get here, Erik?"

"That…is not for you to know, my angel." For the first time, he looked pained, almost ashamed. "For now, simply know that I am here."

"Have you come to take me back? If so, you must know that I won't go with you. I cannot. Do you understand that?" She spoke bravely, but in truth she knew there was very little to stop him from taking her. Raoul could fire that gun all he wanted, it would make no difference. The only hope they had was if she were able to calm Erik down, which might take more time that she had. Hurt and pain were swimming in his yellow eyes, but then, astonishingly, he chuckled.

"I understand completely, Christine. After all, what woman could possibly wish to marry a dead man?" Erik took a step forward, and for the first time the spectators could see what now truly set him apart from other men, as his skeletal foot echoed upon the marble floor and his bony hand emerged from the folds of his cloak. There was no gasp of disgust, no horrified murmur at this new revelation. The audience had been hypnotised into utter silence at this impossible, improbable display; even Raoul appeared to have been rendered speechless at his first proper view of his rival's true form. As far as she could tell he made no attempt to stop Erik when he reached out, and the very tips of the bones of his fingers lightly brushed her veil, making her shiver under her silken dress – from what, she did not know, or dared not guess.

"Have you come to wish me well?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady as his fingers traced the shadow of her chin upon the simply piece of lace that kept her from him.

"Perhaps," he murmured, as he drew closer and his foot brushed her wide skirts, making her back away a little, still cautious. He appeared not to notice her subtle retreat. "But I was more inclined to come here to put a halt to this ridiculous façade."

"Just you try it," Raoul growled from behind her, suddenly so close behind her she backed up against his chest, aiming the pistol once more over her very shoulder, making Erik frown darkly and draw back. "You don't have any power over her anymore."

"And you will have to settle with us, first." Meg and Carlotta had both stood up from their front row seats, Meg's fists clenched and Carlotta's shawl falling off, disregarded by its owner. The faces of the young women were set and determined, Christine saw with a sinking heart. Meg, after all, seemed to have seen far worse things in mirrors than Erik, and Carlotta was too proud to let her fear and dread show.

Erik, to her surprise, looked vaguely sympathetic as he gazed at the two girls. "I am truly sorry for the both of you. You didn't deserve this. But I cannot be too sorry, for you alone brought your fates upon yourselves."

"What are you talking about?" Meg demanded angrily, starting forward, but Carlotta's anger fled from her face as she simply stared at Erik. Abruptly, to Christine's shock, she clasped a hand over her mouth, but not before she had coughed and a trickle of something dark erupted from between her lips, to trail down her chin.

_No. Oh, please, not this! Never this!_

All stared at Carlotta as again she coughed and again and again; those horrendous _co-acks _which they had all come to dread, only stronger and more violent than ever before, as if she were choking up her stomach, her lungs, everything inside her. She doubled over, slipping through Meg's hands which had shot out to support her, and landed hard on her hands and knees. Without her hand to cover her mouth something dark and red spattered onto the floor, and more and more came as she coughed and hacked, and couched and coughed and coughed.

"_Co-ack! Co-ack! **Co-ack! Co-ack! CO-ACK!"**_

"_Carlotta!"_ Meg cried, crouching down beside the girl vomiting more dark fluid, glaring up at Erik. "What did you do to her, you _beast?!"_

Erik laughed. That laugh was enough to make Raoul grab hold of her and pull her back, away from him, lest he turn wild and strike out. She clutched at Raoul's arm, hardly believing what she was seeing; why was Erik doing this? Why was he hurting so many people, people she loved? How _could _he?

"Erik! Stop it! Please, leave Carlotta alone! She hasn't done anything wrong! If you must punish anyone, punish me!"

He stopped laughing, to blink at her in surprise. "I haven't come here to punish anyone, Christine. I bear no one here _any_ ill will. Those who came with me, however…" His shoulders rose and fell elegantly. "That, I am afraid, is an entirely different matter."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Raoul asked savagely.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed? You, who snatched Christine back from the underworld? Pathetic." Erik gestured upwards, while nodding towards the still retching Carlotta. "Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!"

As one, the assembled wedding guests turned their heads to look up at the ceiling, where the great crystal chandelier hung from a strong cord suspended from the ceiling. Christine doubted that those who had not had a supernatural experience cold see the dark shapes swarming around the support; like black, writhing snakes. _How did they get there? _she thought dizzily. For all the world, they reminded her of the 'waters' in the river that encroached on Erik's layer; and with a sickening pang she realised that was just what they were. Erik had not come alone from the Land of the Dead, however he had done it. And she could tell – or rather _feel_, as she could no longer feel touch – that these spirits were _hungry._

She wanted to yell a warning to the clueless masses below the crystal death-trap. But it was a voice from the back of the ball room who screamed first.

"Fire! _Fire!_ Run! It's all burning! Run, run or you'll burn!"

_That _was enough to start practically everyone screaming or howling with fear, as an instant later they saw the chandelier began to quiver, then – oh, so slowly, as if it were truly light as a feather – slip free of its support, eaten away by the spirits who were hungry for human life, and drift so softly down towards the floor, ready to burst into razor sharp death and scorching flames.

At once everyone was on their feet, and racing for the doors. For once the servants were more privileged than their masters; being so near the doors to the great room, they were the first to fight their way out, escaping that chamber of death. Aristocrats screamed and kicked and jostled, no longer men and women of highest breeding but almost animals clad in fine clothes, animals that wished to escape a fiery or sharp demise. Only Meg remained where she was, dragging a choking Carlotta desperately out of the way, gasping with fear; and Cecile Jammes stood quite still despite those who rushed around her, seeking a free exit, still screaming her shrill warning like a peacock.

Christine wanted to run to help her friends, but Raoul grasped her by the arm and instead pushed her urgently in the direction of yet another side door as yet unnoticed by the fleeing wedding guests. "Run, Christine!" he whispered. "Get out of here, now!"

"But, Raoul! I can't, what about-"

"Christine, I won't let him take you back, no matter what his tactics are! Get out of here, love, it's not safe!" And he pushed her away again, already turning to make for Erik who stood quite calmly, apparently enjoying the display and Raoul's challenge.

She would have said something else, but her fear overtook her at last. She did not want to be present when that chandelier hit the ground, nor yet when _someone _came walking through the flames, looking intently for her. She picked up folds of her skirts and ran for the doorway, her outfit rustling irritatingly all the way.

She had just reached the door way when the _crash _made her turn around, to watch in utter dismay. The chandelier, in its impact, had scattered razor sharp crystal pieces all across the floor; the flowers and the chairs which had scattered along with the crystal were already alight. Great pools of oil from the lamps had spilled everywhere; even as she stared flames billowed up right in front of her, driving her backwards through the doorway.

"Raoul!" she screamed into the inferno. "Raoul! Meg! Carlotta! Cecile! _Raoul!_"

But through the veil and through the smoke of the flames, she could see nothing. She tore the veil from her head, her eyes already watering with tears, throwing it into the fire in a wild moment as if to feed it. "Raoul!" she screamed again, stepping forward, so close she could feel the heat wash harshly over her face.

But it was not Raoul who answered her. She could see things moving between the flames, but they certainly did not look human either in their aspects or in their movement. What was happening? Where were her friends? She would have ignored the flames and marched straight back in, were it not for the fact that one particular shape suddenly turned and looked directly at her. Yellow eyes flashed in the fire light.

At once everything else vanished. She had to run, away from the one who owned those eyes.

So she ran.

* * *

Cecile slumped back against the wall, shivering in terror. She did not think that she had ever been so frightened in all her life. All that fire, it had been like hell itself. Cecile had had a glimpse, just the merest glimpse, of what lay at the end of that tunnel Raoul had created in the mirror, the terrible night when they had gotten Mademoiselle Christine back. She had no desire to be sucked into it. There was a hell just beyond those doors, and she felt so afraid she could hardly even think. This was worse than candles or fire places; this was fear incarnate.

She managed to look over at Meg and Carlotta, without breaking out into gibbers, which she thought was quite calm and controlled. Truly, she didn't know how she had managed to dash the length of the hall to grab hold of Carlotta's other arm and help Meg to pull her into one of the numerous fortunate side chambers the ball room contained. Had she been the sort of girl to boast, she would have sworn that she had run right under the falling chandelier, so close that she could feel the draught of it pass over her head. That part, along with this whole terrible sordid affair, she would much prefer to forget, otherwise it would cause her to wake up screaming every night of her life, should she live to sleep again.

But they were all sprawled on the floor so that the smoke wafting through the closed doors would not reach them, and Meg said that the fire would burn itself out soon – there was not much to burn in there, after all. She was less than sure about this, but she was so scared that she was willing to go along with whatever anyone else said, so long as there was the possibility they might get out of this alive.

Meg was, for the moment, ignoring her, as she tended to Carlotta, who had thankfully stopped making those dreadful _co-ack _sounds and was even now wiping her chin free of the blood that was not blood after all. This was making Meg very angry indeed; far more angry than scared, which Cecile felt she should by all rights well be by now, considering the room on the other side of the door was bordering on a fiery inferno.

"You mean it was just _wine, _after all?" she exclaimed, clutching her forehead in pent up emotion. "Good grief, Carlotta, you had me terrified! I thought you were dying!I thought Erik was killing you to summon more spirits!"

"You think that I _enjoyed _bringing it up?" Carlotta retorted, wiping her mouth. "Far from the truth, Meg."

Despite herself and everything that was happening around her, she was curious. "Mademoiselle Carlotta," she began, crawling over towards the two, doing her best to ignore the fact that she was crawling nearer to where the fire was, "why _did _you bring up the wine? I thought that you could still drink?"

"I think that I can, Cecile," Carlotta said rapidly, sitting up straighter. Even when recovering from escaping from a blazing chandelier, Carlotta still had the grace of a queen. "It was not the wine, I do not think. It was something, something _in _the wine. Something bad."

"Bad? How?"

The Spanish girl shook her head. "I am not certain. It was merely the smallest hint, but it was there, and I think that my body knew that it had to get it out of me, even if it was not meant for me. You see, I felt – I know this is strange, but I felt as if I tasted death that was not meant for me, but for someone else."

Cecile did not understand this at all. This was all too strange, and she protested. "I am certain there was nothing wrong with the wine when the Comte Philippe the Elder bade me take it to you. He put all the glasses on the tray in order, in my sight."

There was a hissing intake of breath from Meg, who had been silent for the past while. Both of them turned around to look at her, and Cecile was startled by the look on her face. It was more than anger, and she had seen Meg angry more than once…this was pure fury.

"Celandine," she said softly, dangerously. "Celandine was taken ill, just before Erik appeared. Erik needed blood to come here, if not to stay here." She turned to look at Carlotta's the light from the other side of the door shone in her blue eyes, lending them a red, almost demonic tint. "Her glass was next to _yours_, wasn't it, Carlotta? _He_ did something to her. _He_ put something in the wine. That utter, utter _bastard."_

She gawped in shock at the young Giry, but before she could say anything, make an inquiry, as what on earth was going on, yet another voice spoke from above them.

"Now is not the time, I think, Mademoiselle Giry, to sit and swear, is it?"

She herself could do nothing more than stare mutely, but she could see that Carlotta smiled grimly up at the dark, familiar shape that paid no attention to the smoke drifting about his head.

"_Buenas dias, Señor _Persian. What do you propose that we do now?"

* * *

Christine stopped to lean against a wall, panting and sweating inside her gorgeous, torturous gown. She longed to tear it off, but then it would simply leave hints for her pursuer to follow, like a silken trail of breadcrumbs leading to the prize. Now that she had time to think without seeing those yellow eyes, she thought that it was not so sensible for Raoul to have sent her off on her own, since Erik could slip past him like a shadow, and come in pursuit of the runaway bride.

She knew that he was following her. Why should he not? The oldest game in the world; the woman running and the man following to catch her, perhaps to kiss her, perhaps to tumble her, perhaps to do something else altogether. But she did not want to be caught. With all her life, she did not want to be caught; and so she pounded down the corridors in her silken slippers, clutching at the stitch in her side with one hand, holding her skirts out of the way of her feet with the other, trying not to breathe too loudly or make too much noise by sweet, sweet living. Every noise carried, and she knew all too well that Erik had better hearing now he was dead than he had ever had when he was alive.

Where on earth was she now? She recognised the corridor she was in vaguely as being quite near the Louis-Philippe room, which was a long way away from the ballroom indeed. Had she really run that far in such a short space of time, climbing stairs in the process? It felt as if she had been running for an eternity-

"_Christine."_

That, _that _voice made her start horribly, but she was not so alarmed as not to notice that it carried an echo to it – inaudible to any untrained ear, but she knew that it meant that Erik was casting his voice. Likewise it also meant that, firstly, he was not near her, and secondly he had no definite idea of where she was. If both of the two were true the voice would be much clearer, and also delivered directly into her ear rather than into the air around her.

This knowledge gave her hope, not least because it reminded her of the lessons he had given her, not dreaming that she could turn her new gifts upon her teacher.

"_Christine," _his voice persisted. _"Why do you run? Do you think that I would harm you?"_

She might have a chance, if she used what he had unwittingly given her. She, too, could make her voice carry; not enough to rival Erik's skill, but enough to potentially deceive him. _I can project my voice to different places; make him think he's catching up with me! I can trick him! Even if he can hear my heart-beat, I can confuse him! I _can_ do it! _She prepared herself, remembering his own lectures upon the arts she was about to use against him.

"_Perhaps not that. But I fear what you might do instead." _She projected her voice several feet down the hallway, softly but clearly, though unable to hide her own much more tell-tale echo. There was a pause, as if Erik was genuinely surprised, and then Erik's chuckle came rolling back in reply, shaking with mirth.

"_Very cunning, Christine. Very cunning indeed. But do you believe that this will confuse me for as long as you wish?"_

"_Believe? No," _she admitted as she crept along, keeping close to the wall and trying not to make her dress rustle too much. _"But I hope that it will keep you unaware of where I am, until you have to return to whence you came."_

"_I doubt it will, Christine. I sincerely doubt it will. But I will indulge in this game of hide and seek, if you so desire."_

She made no reply, passing the closed doors to the Louis-Philippe room. She would not risk speaking unless he spoke, so that she could tell how near or far away he was, though she would have a hard time indeed in working that out. Her heart was beating more calmly now, now that she knew she had _some_ control, rather than simply fleeing before a dark predator.

"_You left me, without even a goodbye, Christine."_ Now Erik's voice was soft, smooth, enchanting, as if commanding her to turn around and run into his arms and beg for forgiveness. But she had never begged for anything in her life, save for death when she was a girl and did not know how to live, and she would not start pleading for mercy now.

"_I know. I wish it had not been so, but it had to be." _She projected her voice this time into the room she had just passed, hoping to potentially disorientate her stalker. _"What else could I have done, Erik?"_

"_Not a great deal. I know that you overheard Nadir and I speaking. He is more cunning than I gave him credit for." _Abruptly his voice shifted; now it seemed to be speaking right out of the wall she was pressed up against. It took all her resolve not to leap away in fear. Perhaps he was only making a guess. Perhaps. _"And your little Vicomte is more resourceful than I gave him credit for as well. I must say, I am impressed that he went through so much for you. Then again, the idea that he would endure any suffering for your love is not surprising at all. Not that this makes him any better in my eyes, of course."_

"_You gate-crash my wedding day," _she muttered, as she rounded a corner, turning away from where Erik's voice was at that moment projected, leaving her own voice to go left, _"you threaten my friends, you terrorise everyone in the vicinity, whatever you brought with you sets the place on fire, and now you insult my fiancée yet again? You are a cold man, Erik." _

"_That is a trait we might well share, _Christine." His voice was suddenly right in front of her, making her back track down the corridor before she convinced herself that she would not let herself be driven back into his arms, wherever they were at this moment. _"You force yourself to be colder and harder than you might otherwise be, not for yourself but for those around you, because you cannot be seen as anything but demure, you cannot deviate from the mask you built up for yourself. You force yourself to keep your true, deep emotions bottled up inside you, along with those touching memories of your father."_

She felt her cheeks burn, not with embarrassment but with fury. How dare he? _"This coming from the one who nearly encased his whole lair with ice at the memory of his mother? The one who hates Raoul's family so very passionately?"_

"_Touché." _Erik's voice was now to her right again, and to her dismay it was keeping pace with her, even when she began to hurry more and more, forgetting her vow not to make too much noise in her haste to get away. _"But you still don't know the full story of what they did to me, Christine – though you shall, in time."_

"_I will not!" _she hissed rapidly, making a sharp turn left. _"Your words are poison, Erik!"_

To her dismay, she found that she had entered into a corridor lined with mirrors, which echoed even more than was the wont with these particularly glamorous corridors she had been fleeing through. Several brides clad in white silk made their timid way along the corridor, nervously glancing to her as she glanced at them, their fear and trepidation repeated again and again. She dared not speak again; it might at once give Erik a clue as to where she was.

"_Shall I tell you something else, then, Christine?"_

God, his voice was _everywhere; _it was all around her, surrounding her like an ocean of sound. Panicking by now she made for the exit, grabbing hold of her skirts, not caring now whether they rustled for all they were worth.

"_You can run, Christine, but you can't hide from me here. You see, I built this place." _She halted at this revelation, staring at her wide eyed reflections, her mouth open but no words, projected or otherwise, finding their way out. _"Oh yes. This place was my masterpiece, or one of my masterpieces at least; and I still know it like the back of my hand. So, no matter where you go in this place, I know where you are, and I _will _find you. After all, this house…no, rather a palace…"_

She hardly dared move, but she had to. She could not allow herself to give in to terror, and the exhilaration that came with terror. She moved again, cautiously, towards the end of this horrible corridor,

"…_you…"_

His voice was far away again, moving ahead of her. Perhaps he thought she had already gone on, and that his voice was keeping pace with her once more? She wasn't about to shatter the illusion.

"…_in the end, my dear Christine, both the prizes of the de Chagny's are truly **mine."**_

As the final word met her ear, once again close to it, she darted sideways, and her back met something tall and solid and cool, that wrapped two strong arms around her before she could breathe.

"_Mine," _cool lips whispered into her ear again, as that voice poured into her soul like intoxicating nectar, stilling her moan of despair and defeat, _"mine…"_

**

* * *

This chapter was one of the hardest for me to write, concerning Celandine. I do wish it hadn't had to come to that, but it _had_ to. It just did. I feel so sad.**

**Also, I'm probably going to that fan-fiction purgatory that is reserved for those who cause their characters to have very messy miscarriages.**

**Oh well. It could be worse. At least I didn't have her wait until the baby was a toddler, then have her cook it in a pie and eat it.**

**When I told Mum what the basis of this chapter was, her face fell, and she told me that she really wished I'd write about _nice _things for a change. I told her that you can only do that for a while before it gets boring. That's why everybody reads _Paradise Lost _and _The Divine Comedy. _I hate to say it, but nasty things are much more interesting than nice things at times.**

**And no, I _don't _support abortion. Thanks to my fairly tranquil upbringing I believe everyone should have the right to choice in their life (just not choice that involves blowing up mums and toddlers on trains with bread pudding bombs) and I'm _not_ saying that people who have abortions are wrong. A woman has the right to control what goes on inside her body as much as a man does. But that doesn't mean I am a fan of it, by any means.**

**And as for causing a woman to have a miscarriage by slipping her a special drink on the sly, well, that's just plain evil. My, but I think up some nasty actions. Again, I do truly apologise if anyone was offended by that passage (why, no, I wasn't hyping up my chapter in the least, I assure you!). I also apologise if I described Celandine's miscarriage erroneously, having never actually been present at a miscarriage, but what I've read of them gave me the material I needed, and my extremely sick imagination did the rest.**

**Yes, strictly speaking, a marriage ceremony is _supposed _to take place in a church (unless you're not a Christian, or an atheist, or can't afford it and get married in a registry office instead) and not in a ball room. However, in this case, it does. Or rather, _should_ have done. You'll find out about why that is soon, I promise you. No, I didn't bother to research any marriage ceremonies for this. Not because I was lazy, just because I don't think many people wanted to sit there reading loads of vows and yawning, wanting to get to the good stuff (not that I'm saying a marriage ceremony is not a highly sacred and important tradition – but from what little I can remember of it, especially if you're sitting at the back and can hardly hear, it gets pretty boring after a while) and anyway, all those vows Victor says in _Corpse Bride _isn't exactly used in the real world.**

**Also, squee for Erik's ventriloquist skills, and to a lesser extent Christine's. Could you _really_ do this in real life? Who knows? Who cares? I think that if _I_ were Christine, I'd get Erik to teach me to do that first of all(and not leap on him and take him wildly against the pipe organ, as others might). Who needs to sing like an angel (not that it wouldn't be nice, mind you) when you can scare someone senseless by whispering in their ear when you're in the next room, or making them think whatever they're holding at the moment has come to evil life, like a cursed doll, or, _dum dum dum, _an _egg whisk_? **

**Moo ha ha.**

**

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Please, review this meagre offering from the half-Irish seamstress? And wipe your feet as you leave.**


	52. I am the hunter, you are the game

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of it.**

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* * *

I know this has been a long time in the coming, people. I am sorry indeed, but my life has been particularly screwy before this, and this was really the first time I had to work on the story in a while. And, really, I think I could have done it better. It's one of those in-between sorts of chapters, where people are talking a lot – or running a lot, in this case - but nothing much happens at all. It's a bit like Yugi-oh episodes – most of the time they're playing card games, albeit card games with really spiffy monsters emerging and smushing each other up – and yet you (the viewer) keep coming back, because you've just _got_ to know what's going to happen next.**

**I never thought I'd be comparing this to anime, let alone an anime like Yugi-oh. What is wrong with my _mind, _people? I need some sleep.**

* * *

"**She will find me," Adelaide whispered. "If I went to the bottom of the sea she'd find me and drag me out. She would."**

**The Ruby in the Smoke, _by _Philip Pullman.**

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* * *

**

I am the hunter, you are the game

_Where are you, Erik? Where _are_ you?_

_I'll find you. And when I do…_

Raoul could hardly see. He could hardly breathe. The fire was tearing great rips in his throat and his eyes, and his body was protesting with every step he took, and one of his hands was practically on fire itself from pain where it had been scorched by a stray flame. But he had to find Erik and…

…and do what? He did not know. What could he do if he actually found him? The gun he held in his hand would not be as much use as he had thought it would be when he had hidden it under his black tunic only that morning. Erik was right; it would do very little damage to him, since a bullet in various places would exactly stop the walking corpse.

But he _did_ know that he wanted to smash out those terrible yellow eyes. He wanted to fracture his arms and legs. He wanted to tear off his smirking lips and punch out his yellowed teeth. He wanted to break every single bone in him. If he couldn't kill him,then he would _break _him.

_I won't let you hurt any of us anymore. I must stop you, before it is too late for us. Too late for Christine._

_I'll hunt you down, and by God I'll cause you more inconvenience than even _you _can stomach, you monster._

He wiped his streaming eyes, and gazed furiously around the smoky ballroom. Apart from the wreckage of the chandelier, he could see little or nothing.

"Erik! Where are you, you coward? Come out and face me!"

There was no reply, not even a mocking remark, and as Raoul wheezed and spluttered and hacked, a horrible thought came to him. He had sent Christine away for her safety; what would have stopped Erik from going after her, save his own feeble efforts?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

"_Merde!" _he yelled, and said it again for the sheer novelty of it. It was rare that he swore these days, but this was definitely an occasion for it.

He turned to stumble to the door he had pushed Christine towards only a minute or so before, hoping that it was not blocked by burning rubble or flames; but instead he nearly ran into somebody else, knocking them over and causing himself to fall back.

_Somebody else? Who's still in here except for me?_

But as he made out the face of this new, mysterious personage, he felt all the rage and pain drain out of him to be replaced with something that was half joy and half fear. There was no wonder, though – after all he had seen there was hardly any innocence or potential for surprise left in him at all.

_This is like a dream. This must be a dream. Or is it a nightmare?_

"_Nadir?" _he said softly, incredulously, reaching out to touch the man's solid if very cool arm – which, he had to admit, soothed the pain of his burned hand immensely - helping him up. "Nadir, what on _earth_ are you doing here?"

"Saving your life, apparently." The now fully corporeal spirit scowled at him as he got to his feet. "Raoul de Chagny, despite all you have gone through it appears you can still be something of a nitwit, and you may die a stupid and meaningless death even if you don't deserve it. Now come on." He grasped Raoul by the wrist and yanked him towards a different door, away from the way Christine had gone, despite his struggles.

"Let me go! Christine went that way, and Erik went after her, I know it!"

"And you think you could do her any good if you went after her now? We need more behind us that your hot temper, Raoul, noble though it might be!" And Nadir pulled him through a doorway, out of the searing heat of the room and into the searing embrace of a very familiar person. He barely had a glimpse of two bodies lying upon the floor, propped up against the wall, before Meg's squeal rattled and shook his ears as her arms flew about his chest, and _squeezed_. Over her shoulder he saw Carlotta and Cecile staring wide eyed at the flames behind him just before Nadir banged the door shut. Then the eye-watering _pain _chiefly took over, and he turned what attention he could back to Meg.

"Raoul! Raoul, where've you been? We thought that you might be hurt or injured!"

"Not yet, at least," he managed to mutter through the swell of pain in his ribs, and the relief that at least Meg was safe, while pushing her away as gently as he could. "How is Carlotta?" he asked softly, knowing he might not like the answer.

"I have been better," came that familiar voice, and he looked back to see her more clearly now, sitting on the floor with her arms curved around her knees, her lips stuck out in a pout, looking remarkable well for someone who had been coughing up blood only a little while before; Cecile huddling back beside her. "The wine did not agree with me. So it came back up."

Raoul barely had time to marvel at the ridiculous nature of this before Nadir was stepping forward and speaking again, rapidly. "There is no time for this. I do not know how long I myself may remain here in any case; it was only by chance that I was able to break through the barrier between the worlds. We must act if we are to salvage the situation, and we must act quickly. Already one innocent life has been sacrificed in a most cruel manner."

Raoul's horror came back once again, as his joy at the girls' safety vanished. His sister, his precious sister, his dear sister, her screams of agony had rung in his ears, twisting at his heart enough to pluck it out. It couldn't be…

"Celandine…is _dead?_" The words that came from between his lips sounded more like a croak than something made by a human voice, as if Carlotta's toad had been spirited into his mouth instead.

"Oh, Raoul," and now all the light and life had gone out of Meg's voice, leaving it weak and small as her hand touched his arm, though he could hardly feel it. "Raoul, I'm so, so – _mama!_" She stared now over his shoulder, so surprised that he turned to see what she was looking at.

"Your sister is not dead, Raoul." He himself stared dumbly at Madame Giry – or was this Madame Giry? Certainly that lady would not be covered in soot and grime, her face grey with smoke and her still blonde hair now even slightly wild, a bruise on one cheek and the hem of her ripped skirt still smouldering faintly, leaning on the now open door frame for support! But yet, here she was, breathing heavily but still standing tall with determination.

"Mama!" Meg cried again, running into her arms. "Mama, are you all right? What _happened_ to you?"

"I am perfectly all right, Marguerite," Giry said smoothly, embracing her daughter briefly and stroking her hair, before releasing her. "Struggling through panic stricken crowds and running across a burning ball-room does have some effect upon the appearance, sadly. Defarge managed to clear a way for me, though he had to hurry out with the rest of them afterwards. But," she went on, turning her sharp eyes back to the rest of them, "your sister is indeed alive, Raoul, though she has lost a great deal of blood. It was the baby that suffered the most."

Raoul felt as if he was truly going insane from all that was happening to him, so quickly. "_Baby?" _he repeated incredulously._ "_Celandine is expecting?"

Giry shook her head, her sharp mouth face softening with sadness and regret. "She _was._ But she is not any longer. She miscarried the child a short while ago. It was her cries of grief we all heard."

"_Oh!"_ Meg's eyes were suddenly wide. "So that's what…the poison for someone else. I didn't _think_ of that…"

The two Girys shared a glance, and Raoul could finally understand how much Meg was her mother's daughter when he saw the same hard understanding on both of their faces.

"You see the great peril we are all in," Nadir said softly; and if Madame Giry was surprised at the sight of an Asian man with an obviously slit throat, she did not show it. "The blood of an innocent was shed in order to allow Erik access to the surface world, a very life was supplied along with the blood. Who knows how much more blood will be shed this day? We must stop it, my friends. We must stop it together."

"But what can we do?" Cecile asked from her sprawl on the floor, her eyes still darting to the smoke leaking through the cracks in the door which Nadir blissfully ignored.

The Persian tapped his lower lip with his finger for a moment, only a moment, before speaking. "Raoul and I will go down after Erik. Erik would never harm Christine; I know this, even if he has caught her by now. But he might harm _you_, Raoul, very easily. You will need me with you, to quell his anger. Also, I can lead you to where he will probably have taken her."

"I will go with you as well." Madame Giry stepped forward, pushing a strand of hair back behind her ear. "I have some idea of what is behind all this. I know of Erik and his fate, at any rate. Do not look so surprised, all of you; some I knew already, and Meg told me the rest, as I told her what I knew in my turn. I know what has happened to all of you, Defarge as well. And I know what has happened here must be solved. And so I believe a woman's touch would help in negotiations for Christine's safe delivery," she went on, walking over to him and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, warm through his sudden coldness, "and in assurance of your return, Raoul. I will not leave my other daughter trapped beneath the earth again, and I will not see justice left undone."

"What of us?" Carlotta demanded, as she pulled herself up from the floor, her face blazing with indignation. "You will not just leave us in a burning mansion, will you?"

"We won't be left behind. We have work to do, all of us, not just Raoul." He felt a tug on his sleeve, and turned to see Meg holding out her hand imperiously. "Give me your gun, Raoul."

"_Pardon?"_ Forget his own madness; it seemed to be Meg who had finally lost her senses.

"Your gun," Meg said stolidly. "Give it to me. You won't need it where you're going. _We, _however, will."

"Meg, do you even know how to _use _a pistol?" He saw the sense in her proposition, whatever it would turn out to be, but he saw the extreme absurdity as well. And he _would _find a use for the gun in some way, even if he couldn't kill Erik with it.

"Yes," she said, far too quickly. Colour rose to her cheeks as she obviously dared him to defy her.

"I do," Carlotta said tiredly, as if this conversation bored her – which it probably did. "My mother, she taught me the basics of…guns; she is a truly remarkable woman. If you want someone to shoot that gun for you, Meg, then I will do it."

"Good." Meg pulled it out of his hand and passed it to her at once. "Cecile, you come with us as well; we won't leave you alone here. On your feet, come _on,_" she added, as the maid hesitated, which was enough for Cecile to scramble to her feet hurriedly and move to stand beside Carlotta.

Madame Giry nodded. "Good. You all understand, I hope, or at least you will. Meg, you must move quickly, you know that?"

"I know, Mama." Meg abruptly stepped forward and placed a kiss on Raoul's cheek with a whisper of "Good luck," in his ear; before he had time to be surprised Carlotta boldly repeated the action with his other cheek, and Cecile shyly stood on her toes to gently touch her lips to his forehead, as Meg hugged her mother in what seemed like a good-bye. Again the older woman released the younger swiftly, though leaving her hands on her shoulder momentarily as she looked into her eyes.

"Enough of that. He went out by the main doors, but I saw him veer off to the West Wing. He may not have gotten far, but again, move quickly. Now, go."

Nadir was already pulling on his own sleeve, tugging him after him, as he watched the girls hurry away from them down the corridor. "We must go quickly as well. Time is not the same up here as it is down there, but it passes fleeting enough, and already I feel the underworld calling me back."

"Then we must be fast indeed." Giry fell into step alongside them with relative ease as they began to run. "Where are we going, sir?" she added, speaking directly to Nadir for the first time. "Will he have taken her back underground? How can we follow them?"

"It will be difficult but possible, Madame. There is enough blood from those who have been wounded as well as that poor dead child, I fear, to make a bridge both from and to where we must go."

"Could someone _please_ explain to me what the girls are doing?" Raoul burst in, unable to hold his tongue anymore. Was he the only one left making any sense in this whole squalid affair?

"They are no longer girls, Raoul – for now, at least, they are hunters." Giry squeezed his arm while wiping her eyes; they were by this time half way up the corridor, but the girls had already disappeared ahead of them, and the smoke was already following them.

"Raoul, you stay on my left," Nadir said quietly but urgently, as they rounded a corner leading away from the trio, whose footsteps were already fading from hearing, "Madame Giry on my right. Keep one hand on my coat at all times, so that I may guide you, and the other hand at the level of your eyes, covering them, until I tell you otherwise. Close your eyes as well, but keep your hand over them nonetheless."

"Why?" he asked in between pants, doing as he was told even though he found it impeded his progress considerably, shutting out the view of where he was going so that he nearly missed grabbing on to the cloth of Nadir's coat. Giry still seemed to be running as fast as ever on the other side of Nadir, and he felt the tension in the coat that signified that she had grasped hold of it as well.

"There are sights on at least part of the way down, Raoul, that mortals were not meant to see, and still should not, even now." Nadir now sounded as he were standing at the far end of a ballroom – one that wasn't burning, of course. "Again, I implore you, if you wish to emerge from this business unscathed, _keep your hand at the level of your eyes…"_

And then, even between tightly closed eyelids and the pressing, fleshy thickness of fingers, there was _light._

* * *

"Meg, will you not simply tell us what you are looking for?" Carlotta tried once again, but once again there was no answer. Meg simply forged ahead, her face hard and unchanging, wisps of golden, frizzled hair hanging about her face. She hadn't spoken a word since they had started to run, and it didn't seem that she would be starting now.

She sighed, and focused instead on the weight of the gun in her hands. It felt good, somehow…right. Perhaps it made her look threatening; certainly Cecile kept looking anxiously at her. Five shots left in it, perhaps; she couldn't remember if Raoul had actually fired a shot, since she had been rather preoccupied at the time. Perhaps six then, or only four. She would have to make each one count. If only Meg would tell them what she was doing, where they were going! But Meg was her friend, their friend, and whatever she was doing would help Christine – she hoped.

Abruptly Meg stopped and darted forward, picking up something red. They were near the ballroom again, having gone around in something of a circle to avoid the searing heat making its way through the walls. Only a few rooms away they could hear the shocked mumblings of the guests as the servants tried vainly to battle the flames. This was all too strange.

She hoped desperately that Ubaldo was all right. She hoped with all her heart that he had not been hurt when the chandelier began to fall, either by the shattering crystals or in the struggle to get out. She hadn't seen him in the crush. He was strong and sure, he was probably safe.

She shivered. _Probably. _

She couldn't think about it. Better not to think, for now. Don't think on her empty stomach, or the man she had left behind, or her friend, however much it hurt. It would hurt more to think on him - them. She looked back to Meg. "Meg? What is it?"

The blonde girl dropped it back onto the floor – a red flower, she could see now. "A carnation. He was wearing it in his button hole, I remember it. Well, at least he came this far, as Mama said."

"Will you just _tell _us what is going on?" she snapped, infuriated by Meg's elusive manner, as Cecile continue to stare at the flower on the floor. "What is happening here, Meg? Why do we need the gun?"

"Because we're tracking someone." Meg looked back at her, and her eyes were like hard sapphires. "Someone who has done some very bad things, Carlotta, and who'd deserve to get shot if he didn't need to be brought to justice in some other way. We need to find him, and fast, but…I don't know how…" she chewed her lip, for the first time showing some loss of confidence.

Suddenly, Cecile spoke up. "He had a lamp. An oil lamp. He lit it round about here. And went off that way." She pointed up the corridor, away from the sounds of life, into less well lit places.

"Are you sure?" Meg asked, looking curiously at the maid. "Can you smell the oil, Cecile?"

"No." The young maid looked very thoughtful, for a change, Carlotta couldn't help noting dryly. "I don't think…I know that there is still fire, in the ball room. I know that they haven't put it out. There is fire all around, even up that corridor where someone has taken it, and yet…I'm not afraid anymore. I just – know where it all is. I – can't explain it, really I can't. I just _know._"

This was all too complicated for her. They should just get on with it. "Then if you think our prey went up that way, let us go that way and catch him, yes?"

Meg nodded, though slowly. "If you're sure, Cecile…"

The maid's thoughtfulness was now replaced by grim determination. "I am sure."

Meg nodded again, still watching the younger girl with an odd expression on her face. "Then we might as well take a chance."

_This is more like it, _Carlotta thought. "Then the hunt is on."

* * *

"You may release my coat now, both of you, and it is safe to look once more," Nadir said calmly.

Raoul unclenched his fistful of cloth with a sigh of relief, and slowly opened his eyes – the last while had not been pleasant, stumbling blindly along some burningly bright but extremely narrow corridor, as if they were playing a nightmarish version of follow the leader.

He was surprised to see that they were still in a tunnel, though a far bigger one that they had been forced to squeeze through. There was light, of a much dimmer and redder kind, from some unknown source, which was a welcome relief to the burning brightness that had seared even through his hand and prickled his tightly closed eyes. Simply with his eyes closed, he might actually have been blinded. Here, the cool dusk was much easier to cope with, even if it did provide some cover for things to spring out at them.

"Where are we?" he asked softly, resisting the urge to loosen his collar – it was now getting unpleasantly warm again.

"We are fairly close to Erik's abode, but not _too_ close – I did not want to alert him to our presence so early. This will give us the chance we need to get close enough without him barring the way to us."

"Because he'll be too busy with Christine?" The anger was rising in Raoul once again. The very thought of what that…_thing _might be doing to her, even if Nadir said he would never hurt his love, was wretched to him. _You can touch someone without hurting them. You can kiss someone without hurting them, in more than one place…_

_Oh God, I'm going to rip his bloody _head_ off._

He hadn't realised that he had spoken that last part out loud until he was given a very severe glare by Madame Giry, who had remained silent through the journey so far, seemingly cowed by her surroundings, though not now. "I doubt you will be ripping anyone's head off, Vicomte, bloody or not."

"I don't care! He deserves it!" He said that without thinking, but that didn't mean that he did not think it was true. _Look at what he's done to us, all of us. Look at what he's done to Christine. Oh, he deserves everything he gets!_

Nadir looked over his shoulder, pained; but before he could speak Giry went on. "Such harsh words, Raoul, but is there any strength behind them? You think that Erik is a monster. But Erik is not the villain in this story by any means."

"And you would know _how?_"

She gave him a cool look. "Let me tell you a story, Vicomte, as we travel ever down and down, and you Monsieur Nadir as well. Perhaps when I have finished it, you will know and understand more than when it began."

* * *

It felt as if they had been running for ever and ever. At least, it seemed that way to Carlotta. Occasionally they would pause when the corridor they were one spread out into two or more, and Cecile, after only a little deliberation, would point the way. It soon became obvious that a lamp might well have been needed, since whatever curtains that were here had not been opened, letting only tiny chinks of light through, and none of the lamps had been lit for a while. They were making their way into the less used parts of the house. What would they find?

Carlotta tried not to think about what they were leaving behind, or what they were running into. It was as if they had been running far longer than any distance any house could contain, even such a house as this. There was some bad taste upon the air, and it grew stronger and stronger in her mouth as they ran. A taste not of blood but of iron, tangy on her tongue. A taste of swords. A taste of…revenge.

_We are the avengers…_

She did not know what had made her think that. She only had to run, and run, and run. And keep hold of the gun.

At least they knew that they were on the right track, by whatever magic was enabling them to find their way through Cecile's new, odd gift; at one point they had found, by pure accident, a discarded jacket, which Meg had examined with a none too pleasant smile, and at another corner a silken cravat that had dropped to the floor. Evidently whoever they were hunting was getting hot from their flight, and Cecile smiled herself each time they found some new article cast aside to aid the escape that might not come after all.

And so they ran, getting hot themselves, casting off shawls and jackets as they went, pausing only briefly, and running again. Was this what hunting was like? If so, Carlotta could see why humans had taken to using horses instead of their feet. Already she was becoming tired, and would she be able to aim well when at last – if they managed it – they reached their quarry, whatever or whoever it would turn out to be?

This had to come to an end. They were bringing an end about, but what end it would be had still to be seen.

_We are the avengers._

At length Meg halted, anxiety coming to her face. "There's something up there," she said, pointing forwards to possibly the darkest corridor they had encountered yet. "Something strange. I can…sense it. Feel it. Confusing. I've been here before, I think, but I can't remember when."

"He did go that way, though," Cecile said softly, her nervousness beginning to show again. "Up there. I think that he dropped the lamp there. The flame doesn't go on any further after that, I can tell."

"_Bother."_ Meg glared into the darkness, and visibly made up her mind. "We have to go in. We must find him. Come on. Keep that gun ready, Carlotta, we may need it." So saying, she hurried into the shadows, Cecile following close behind her.

_Keep it ready? How am I supposed to shoot if I can't see a damn thing? _Carlotta thought some very bad words inside her head as she stamped forward swiftly after Meg and Cecile, only to nearly walk into them as a light abruptly flickered on above them.

_What?..._

_Oh, **no.**_

Mirrors.

Mirrors, everywhere. Lining all the walls, every one casting a reflection of all three of them, reflections upon reflections upon reflections. A myriad of girls pictured against a wooden wall, again and again and again, forever and ever and ever, circling all around them and cutting off any escape.

_Mary, Mother of God, where _are_ we? _

She could see all their faces staring at them, over and over again, pale and terrified, a nightmarish version of a dressing table mirror, showing multiplied torn stained dresses and wild hair and round, staring eyes. Triads of mauled ladies, staring in at them, leering, perhaps laughing. The mirrors seemed to stretch their faces, their eyes slitted, their tongues forked – no, no, this was ridiculous. It was simply her imagination taking advantage of her.

Which was an odd thing, because since her childhood, when she had been so terrified by her sister's ghost stories, Carlotta Gudicelli had resolved never to let run her imagination run amok.

But still heat rose in her as she stared, the dull heat of terror beginning in her still empty stomach, hotter in some ways than the flames they had escaped. Truly if they stayed here they would go mad. She clasped the gun, and the smoothness of the metal revived her a little.

"We must get out of here," she muttered, to herself as well as to the others.

"_How?" _Cecile said softly, drawing near to her. "Where's the door? Where's the _door, _Carlotta?"

_No door? It's gone? _Already she could see what this _thing_ was; it was meant to entrap and delude, to misguide and misdirect. Finding the way in to this place was much, much easier than finding the way out.

She barely had time to be even more afraid – _and really, should I? _– at this news, before she remembered someone who would be even more afraid, dying of fear by now. She looked around at Meg, and was surprised to see no fear on the girl's face, no terror, none of the phobia she had developed over the last few days. Instead she was looking in contemplation at her reflection in the mirrors; very like, she realised, when Cecile had first contemplated the sensation of flames and how they corresponded to her. There was no dread, no hiding, only herself laid bare, and the mirror laid bare in turn.

_What is happening? Have our curses been lifted? Does this mean…does this mean that we are **free? **Is this why I no longer feel pain inside me?_

The two of them watched in trepidation, Cecile's hand clutching her arm, as Meg dreamily made her way forward, her arms slowly rising from her sides to stretch out in front of her, like a fanciful representation of sleep walking – and her reflection came to meet her, holding out its hands in welcome, drawing her into the cool of the mirror, just as Raoul had been before her, and the life would be sucked out of her…no, of course not; it was simply her fingers meeting the surface of the mirror.

That was all it was. Nothing else.

_Who can be frightened of a reflection?_

But Meg was. Or had been. And though she had not said what she had seen, clearly they had not been pleasant things at all, worse than her own visions.

Now Meg stared into the eyes of her own reflection for a time, resting her hands on the mirror, before smiling slowly and walking to the side, to the side, along, feeling her way along the invisible wall that neither she herself nor Cecile could see, but which she could both see and sense and feel. There was something going on here, something not quite normal, something as far from normal as could be. From the slightly smug look on Meg's face, it looked as if she was repeating a lesson she had been taught long ago, and turning it on the one who had taught it to her.

A point came when Meg was standing far to their right, and their own images stood a little way beyond her. She breathed in once, twice, and her smile widened as her hand slowly slid down the surface of the mirror, one finger moving to a certain point, ready to press something.

"When I say run, "she whispered, apparently talking only to her reflection, "_run."_

Carlotta didn't know what on earth was happening, but she grasped Cecile's wrist and nodded her assent, just as Meg pressed something invisible on the surface, and jumped back as the mirror swung forward.

_Well done Meg, _she had time to think, as they surged forward into the darkness that lay beyond the room of mirrors.

* * *

Before, Raoul felt as if he were on fire himself, instead of the ball room. Now, he simply felt numb with what he knew.

Before, he had hated Erik. Now, all that he felt was pity for him. What could he do now?

"What must I do?" he asked, voicing his own thoughts. "What can I do, now that I know?"

It was Nadir who answered him, as the rounded another corner, a light growing steadily ahead of them. "You must do what you can, Raoul. No one can ask more than that of you."

_Yes. That is true. But…I don't know what to do, now. I did once, but not anymore._

_Why do I still live?_

* * *

Carlotta did not know what she had been expecting, when they had barged through the doorway in the mirrors. But perhaps she had known it all along, all the way from when Christine and Meg had first arrived, to when Christine had come back, to when the ball room had burst into flames and Celandine had screamed and screamed and screamed.

_Coiled inside us, all along…_

She raised the pistol, and pointed it directly towards the man's head, hoping feverishly that her hands weren't trembling. It would never do at all to look scared in any way at this point.

But Comte Philippe the Elder, for some odd reason, didn't appear to mind three girls glaring at him, or one aiming a gun at him. He sat back in his chair, his crisp white shirt rustling slightly, and simply smiled and smiled at them, though rather tiredly.

"Good morning, ladies. I believe you've found me out, at last."

**

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What to say about this? Perhaps I'll come back and fix it, perhaps I won't. Certainly it ties up some plot points, as well as keeping you on tenter hooks, but…I just don't know. I really don't. It needs something more. Perhaps I'll come back to it, when I feel more inspired to work on in-betweeny chapters. Heaven knows we want to get to the revelations, and the end – which is a pretty good one, I think, even if I do say so myself. I rather like what's coming next chapter, so I suppose that makes me feel better about this one.**

**How's _that _for a trip downstairs, people? For those who prefer Nadir showing Raoul the way, or Giry, well – I put them _both _in! Crowd pleasers make everyone feel better, I'm sure. And Giry will have a reason for being down there as well, as I'm sure you'll guess, or at least try to guess. I love working these little references in, even if people don't always get them.**

**For anyone who caught the other significant reference – yes, I luvs _Doctor Who. _Only my own mostly-beloved England could come up with a science fiction drama-comedy about a self-regenerating alien who mooches around in a time travelling police box that would end up becoming a cult classic, especially one who now has a _sonic screw-driver_. English science fiction is probably one of the best sorts, because they usually make it so darn funny at the same time, and what's the point of having space travel in a show if you're not prepared to speculate about what shape you might be in when you arrive at your destination? You _know _you'd wonder if you'd arrive with your spleen, admit it, people! Plus English people are daft enough to wonder how exactly everyone actually understands each other out in space, and to think up random ways to solve the problem. Forget translators or universal languages; suck some Tardis radiation into your brain or stick a fish in your ear and you're all set!**

**And if you have _no_ idea what I'm talking about, you've been sadly deprived all your life. I'm not even going to begin on the robots.**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress, please!**


	53. Point of no return

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. Though I am VERY pleased with what I don't own.**

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Sorry. More trouble in my life. Not necessarily bad, but still trouble. Never mind. This perks me right up.**

**You can tell by the title that it's a biggie. I will say no more, except that:**

**I LOVE THIS CHAPTER.**

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Zehra: How can you say why you love someone? A thousand reasons crisscross the heart, but at the centre – no reason at all, only the mystery of that person. If you say you love someone because they are handsome or rich or powerful, you love only a fraction.**

**The Ash Girl, _by _Timberlake Wertenbaker.**

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Point of no return

The chase, much as he had enjoyed it, had had to come to an end. Even as he paced steadily through the halls which he had designed and supervised the building of, running his fingers along familiar walls, he knew that he had left that part of his genius behind when he had died. He would never make another house like this one. He would never make another house at all.

_This has gone on for too long. I cannot continue like this. You must come back to me._

He had to save her. He had to keep her safe. He had to keep her from the sword that had opened his body to let out his own life, from the weapon that had caused the death of an innocent. He would not wish death upon her. That would not be right.

_I have no right to decide when you die._

Christine truly had little idea of how close he was upon her trail while she fled from him, as he stolidly walked after her, the lining of his cloak still smouldering from the heat of his destroyed ballroom. Unlike him, she would eventually tire, and then he would catch her all the more easily. Why was she doing this? But of course he knew why.

He had been impressed when she had used her own branch of ventriloquism to try and fool him, but in reality he had never been more than a few steps behind her. How could he not, when he still held the memory of it in his soul? He had worked on this place for three years, and had not forgotten it in all his years of death. This place had been his true masterpiece; and now he must leave it behind.

He followed her to the hall of mirrors, keeping out of her sight all the time – a master feat, even if he said so himself – and waited until she was transfixed by the multitude of images that stared back at her. He approached her silently, casting his voice all the while. She only knew her situation when he whispered in her ear, and she fled straight back into him.

_Safe!_

He had barely had time to throw his arms around her and pull her close to him before his hard-won time was up; but now that she was back in his embrace he could take all the time in the world to go back 'downstairs'. Even as she struggled in his arms, he felt a surge of energy push its way trough him, replenishing him, strengthening him, giving him what he needed; and he hugged her all the more tightly, part in sheer love, part in triumph.

_You're safe._

But his thought was combated by Christine's furious shriek finally erupting from her choked mouth, too late, far too late, as he _pulled _both of them,and at once they were back under the earth once more - so quickly it made even his head spin - and he landed hard up against a cavern wall with Christine still in his arms, held tight. If he had still been alive, that certainly would have winded him. But he wasn't alive. That made all the difference.

Christine's elbow, which dug sharply into his side, would have hurt as well, were it not for the fact that she was too distracted to make it count for much. He restrained her easily, but surprisingly she wasn't trying to escape; she wriggled around in his arms, pushing herself away only so that she could scream into his face, her eyes wild and her lips wet.

"_Why? Why did you _do _that?"_

Of all the questions she could have asked, it had to be the one he knew the answer too all too well, but couldn't tell her, could never tell her, because she would accuse him of lying. To say that he loved her would only make her scream that if he loved her, if he _truly_ loved her, he would let her go. And that prospect he simply could not begin to comprehend.

_Not again. _

So he said nothing. He had only to wait until the time was right to carry her further away from that terrible threat that could still come to her. He let her scream for a little while instead, calmly holding her as still as he could and keeping her hands away from his face (and more importantly his mask) while she pummelled his chest and ripped at his shoulders, detaching his cape; and then when she paused for breath he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her along, meaning that she must run with him or fall-

"How _dare _you do this, you _b-" _

-and fall she abruptly did, over his heaped up cape, with a great flurry of silk and lace and flailing arms, and he pulled her gently up again, feeling her solid, panting weight in his arms again. He used the excuse to catch her up into his embrace once more and carry her along without worrying about her falling again, and also making sure she could not run from him.

Her hand hit him hard around the head and he almost stumbled himself, feeling the mask dislodge and slide further down his face, though not the pain that should have come with the blow. He paused only to catch the offending arm in his free hand and walked on, ignoring her angry cries even when she spat them into his ear.

"Leave me alone! Take me back! For God's sake, why can't you just let me _be?"_

For their own good he paid her no heed but marched on, letting her strike at his head as much as she liked – it wasn't as if she could hurt him, after all, at least not physically. He would reach their destination long before she tired out, but he didn't care. She was alive, beautifully alive, and her fury was righteous, and he adored it all, so much.

Impulsively he squeezed her even tighter to him, and she must have thought that it was a threat of some sort because she fell still, her breath still rushing in and out of her lings like the gush of a river, her blood pumping with anger and frustration, her hand still pressed against his chest by his own. He could feel its warmth through his waistcoat and through his dead fingers and her lacy glove.

"Don't stop," he murmured, as he leapt with his burden over a great gap in the path, not bothering to see what lay far down within it. "If you do, you will go mad. Scream your heart out if you wish. I won't stop you. I won't cover your mouth to cover up what I have done. I know what I've done, and I'm proud of it. Voice your disapproval, Christine."

He looked down in time to see her brown eyes narrow up at him and her lips part to bear her teeth. But when her mouth opened again, she did not scream, she only whispered. "Why are you doing this to me, Erik?"

It wasn't an accusation. It was not meant to harm, or hurt. It was not a weapon or a jagged barb of any sort. It was a simple, confused, saddened question, and so it tore him inside more than any scream or slap ever could.

Could a paltry protestation of his love for her, all consuming, all devouring, justify _this?_

_Yes._ It could. He knew, he _knew _that it could. It was what kept him going now; his love for her. But would his love destroy them both, in the end? There seemed no true solution, no hope to this.

He kept on walking, deeper and deeper, preferring to avoid the boat across the spirit-water for fear of what she might do – throw herself into the water to slip beneath the surface, and away from him, finally, forever? - and instead he carried her the long way around the shores of the river, close to the wall, never once lessening his hold. Christine did little else but now stay painfully still and breathe, deeply, harshly. Once or twice she took a deeper breath than usual, obviously keep back a sob. That tore at him as well.

_Perhaps it will please her to know that she causes me pain, even now._

Finally, with a step across a shallow version of the bay, they were back, in his dim abode which had been so much to him, but had become nothing without her, nothing at all. What did he care for mirrors if he could not see her reflection in them? What did he care for drawings or sketches if he could not draw or sketch her? Once it had been a place of dreams longing to be fulfilled. Now it was simply like that dark place in the back of the head, in which you waited until dreams came to you. And the only dream that was now possible for him was in his arms.

_I will have to be very careful, even now, to make certain that this would not become my nightmare._

In the low light of the candles he set her down upon her feet upon the dais; she let him, wrapping her arms around herself as soon as he took his own away and turning her face away from him, strands of her ruined hairstyle falling over her face. As she shivered in her white silk, one paltry flower slowly came loose from her temple, and drifted gently down to the floor. While she distractedly watched its descent, he never took his own eyes off her face, so that when she looked up again their eyes truly met, for the first time since the chandelier had fallen.

She was the first to blink, and looked away again with a low, bitter laugh that did not suit her at all. "So what will you do now, Erik? Now that the wedding is off? Am I your prey, your prize, once more, to be dealt with as you desire?"

Her attitude annoyed him intensely. "You need not be so immature, Christine. I intend nothing of the sort towards you."

"Then why did you choose to abduct me again? Did you simply think you would liven up my wedding party? If so, you have certainly succeeded. I doubt that anyone will ever forget the carnage you've inflicted today."

"You exaggerate grossly. No one was hit by the chandelier, not even your little friend vomiting her guts out on the floor."

"Does that comfort me when I think of all the people that you've hurt in the mansion? When the chandelier crashed, and the fire started? All those who might have died? Should that make me feel _better?"_

He could forgive her for leaping to conclusions, but her accusations still pained him terribly. Why did she think of him like this, why did she persist in it? _I am _not _a murderer. Not any more._

"That was not my doing, as I am certain you are aware. Be glad that those spirits who came through behind me attended to the chandelier instead of directly attacking people. And I had _nothing_ to do with the condition of your friend – that was simply the price she had to pay for tampering with forces she should have left well alone."

She glared back at him, her voice rising sharply. "You simply say that because she helped to get me away from you. She didn't deserve that – none of them deserved what has come to them. And you did do something to Celandine, something terrible-"

She broke off, taking a step back as he closed the space between them, resisting the urge to grab her arms and shout _you're wrong, you're wrong! _"I did _nothing _to de Chagny's sister; that was the work of another…one who would have turned his attentions to _you, _if I had let him."

She laughed harshly. "Should I be grateful then? Should I thank you for _saving_ me instead of kidnapping me? I feel far from grateful; but here," she stripped off one of her lace gloves and thrust it out towards him, "a favour from your damsel for your _heroic _deed. Take it and display it in your helm, why don't you?"

_She's hysterical. _

He raised one eyebrow and gently knocked the glove aside, but this only incensed her further; she raised her hands and ripped at her throat, pulling at her lacy collar, exposing her pale skin, hissing through her teeth. "You don't want that? Do you want more, Erik? What do you _want? _Why can't you just leave me _alone? _Why can't you let me be happy? Why can't you let me live freely? Are you _that_ selfish?"

He didn't know what he felt more at the moment, love or anger, at her or himself. He leaned forward and caught the hand that was ripping her white silk jacket open further, trying to calm her or himself. "You _know _why. You know as well as I do. I love you, Christine. It frightens me myself when I see how much I love you. But love you I do, as much as it torments us both."

"_Your love!" _

Christine's arm moved without hint, and struck him on the shoulder; he stumbled backwards only to receive another jab on his chest, as she attacked him. Even when he grabbed her wrists to keep her hand away from his face she still kept on, trying to jab and to tear, and her hair wild about her face and her mouth wide and screeching. "Your _precious_ love! If you love me so, then why are you doing this to me? You're destroying me! You're destroying us all! You're selfish and cruel – oh, you're _cruel! _What good does your love do me, Erik? _What good does it do?_ It's tearing us apart and killing _me_, and you _let_ it because you can't bear to do anything else; because you're so _weak!_"

He let her hit him. He let her claw at his chest, feeling the marks of her fingers through his clothes. He let her abuse wash over him, if only he could hold her close. _This is my punishment. _It was fitting, in some terrible way. If he stopped her doing harm to herself in her hysterical state, and only hurt him, then she would be safe.

But oh, it hurt so _badly_ when she began to scream, over and over again, those words that he had grown to dread and yet had expected with icy certainty.

"I…I hate you! I hate you! _I hate you! _God, how I _hate_ you!" She shrieked out her hideous mantra, half-howling, and all he could do was grasp her wrists as gently as he could and stop the despair from bubbling up inside himat her words.

_This…after all this time, finally, I am in Hell._

This was Hell, and he was struggling with the angel that his accursed love had transformed into a demon. He had broken her, and he had broken himself, and the pieces of them would fall into the abyss regardless of his futile efforts at the end.

But then, just as suddenly as it had started, the attack stopped, as did her screams. Christine's face softened and her eyes filled with tears as she blinked up at him, the demon exorcised and the angel returned to her features as she began to gasp, trying to pull her wrists away from his hands. At first he thought it was from disgust, but then…oh, then…

"No. No. Erik, I, I don't hate you. I _can't_ hate you. How can I, when I…when I…" She managed to free her wrists and throw her arms about herself again, her shiver returning. Before he could catch her she fell to her knees, her precious breath now coming in faint sobs.

He followed her down to the floor, his bones clicking, and he put out his skeletal hand, forgetting himself, and touched her upon the arm. What happened then surprised him as much as anything else that had happened so far today; Christine reached out and threw her arms around him, pulling herself close to him, resting her head upon his chest. If he had been alive, she would have been able to hear his heart beating. He was so surprised he could barely let his arms gently settle around her shoulders, hugging her softly, tenderly. He held her as he had held his mother, pressed close to where his heart should be, but was no longer present.

"You know, don't you?" she whispered at last. "I think that we have both known for such a long time…but I couldn't admit it. I was too much of a coward."

"The fact that you have chosen to reveal it now belies that," he murmured as comfortingly as he could manage, gently stroking her shoulder. But she shook her head.

"I'm not brave, Erik. It's the only thing I can do now, and…I don't know if I hate it or not. I should. It's so treacherous. How can I love Raoul so much, and yet…and yet…"

"You may say it, if you wish," he said, his calm voice not betraying his inner dark chaos. "It is only the truth."

He felt her head shake, as it pressed closer into his chest. "No. No, I cannot. It frightens me so. It's too much."

"All right." He did not press the matter. He did not need her to say those three beautiful, terrible words, not when they both knew them, perhaps had always known them, to be true. He held her close to him, and she held him close to her, sinking together in a chill embrace that leeched the warmth out of both of them.

But it was enough.

"Why did this have to happen to us, Erik?"

"Hmm?" He roused himself to look down into Christine's face, to see her blinking back tears. "Why did what have to happen?"

"All this." One hand rested on his chest once more, as she pushed herself slightly out of his arms, only to look into his face more closely, more keenly. "Why did it have to _be_ this way? Why did it have to be that you died and only then, years after, when I already loved Raoul, only _then _did I meet you? Why does this have to be? It isn't _fair._ I'm not strong enough to make such a choice, or brave enough, and I don't think you're strong enough to exist without me. Why must this be?" She leaned her head forward again, resting it down where his shoulder met his chest, and he brought a hand up, it didn't matter which one, to stroke her silky, wispy, wild hair. "Why couldn't it have happened another way? Why does it have to be like _this?_"

"I have always noticed that Fortune seems to have something of a sense of humour when it comes to affectations, especially concerning love triangles. Perhaps we were fated to be thrown together like this, for the sick amusement of someone or something, somewhere." _Why did I say _that?

"But it shouldn't have to be like this. It wasn't right. It wasn't just." Her slender fingers crept under the edge of his displaced mask, and before he could stop her – perhaps he didn't _want _to stop her – she pulled it off, letting it fall gently to the floor. But she did more than that; she placed her warm hand on his cold face, her palm on his withered cheek, her thumb on where his nose should have been on that side of his face, the tips of her fingers stroking his temple.

"Was it fair that you were born with such a face? Was it fair that people hated you for it, never seeing the truth beneath the flesh? Was it fair that you had to take it into your own hands to end your mother's misery? And was it fair-" here her other hand cam from behind his back, and her fingers found, with a shiver, where the sword had gone into him, so many years ago, and where his life had pumped out in glorious wet redness – "-was it fair that you were killed in such a manner, and left to rot in a shallow grave in the woods?" Her eyes looked full into his own, and she did not blink this time. "I do not think that was just or right, Erik. That was wrong. It was unfair."

He could barely bring himself to laugh, he thought he might actually faint from what he was feeling, as he took his own hands away from her shoulders and put them to her soft, sweet face, feeling the heat of her cheeks and chin. "And what about _you?_ Do you think it was _fair, _what has happened to you so far in your relatively short life? To lose your mother before you knew her and your father far too soon after that? To be trapped behind a beautiful mask of your own? To be tied and trapped by a marriage you may or may not have wanted? What kind of life is one that prepares you to be merely someone's wife for the rest of your life? Was _that _just?"

Her fingers tightened on his face. "No…no, I don't think it was. I love Raoul, but knowing that I would have to marry him in any case, whether I loved him or not…I had to work hard to keep it from poisoning my heart. But it's too late now. I'm so wicked." She brought her hand up from his side, to cradle his face as he cradled hers, and if he had any breath he would have held it. "Erik, why did you have to love me? I don't deserve it. I don't deserve your love, or Raoul's, or anyone else's. I'm pathetic, I'm weak. I don't deserve this devotion. Could you not have loved someone better, someone more worthy? Why did it have to be _me?_"

"Christine, don't ask that. Don't think in such a way." He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her close, one hand still to her face, feeling her heart beat thumping through both their frames. "I love you. I love you more than I ever thought I could love anything, in life or in death. It frightens me as much as it does you. I don't love you for any one reason. I don't love you because you're beautiful, or because you are kind, or because of your voice. I don't love you for your wit, or even for your bravery – because you are fearless, Christine, in a way that no one else will ever know. I love you because you are yourself, only yourself, exactly yourself. I love you because you are the one who gave me life again, if only a semblance of it. I love you because, no matter how much the knowledge tortures me, I know that if I had never met you, I would truly be dead."

She smiled now, though her face shone with the remnants of tears. "I know what you mean. Despite all that has happened…I'm happy to have known you, Erik. If it had not been for you, I don't know what I would be now. I would be dead inside."

"Then it was well worth it, so that you might be saved from death."

_More than once._

As he held her, his thoughts whirled. _Can I keep this up? Can I keep her with me? I did _this _to protect her. _

_But is this fair either? _At last, with Christine in his arms and her confession in his mind, he could see the truth. _There is no hope for us. There never was. It was a dream. Christine was real, but my hope was a dream. A stupid dream._

_No, not stupid. It gave us reason. It gave us fancy, but it gave us reason as well. But what good does it do us? What can it help us to achieve?_

_We all fall in love with a dream. But we wake up and find ourselves married to strangeness._

_Life is learning to live with that. Death is the same._

He knew what was coming from above; he knew that Nadir would do his best to thwart him again. And he could recognise the taint of the Vicomte, intruding into his realm. He would have to act.

"Nadir is coming, with your fiancée." He watched his beloved's face change, her eyes widen…no longer in anticipation, but in fear, though her voice was quiet when she spoke.

"What will you do? What will _we _do?"

"I no longer know." Gently he helped her to rise, holding her hands in his, refusing to release her for more precious seconds. "He will no doubt probably be furious. As a matter of fact, so am I."

She drew her fingers sharply from his. "_Don't._ Just, don't start fighting with him, please. He doesn't understand."

"I promise that I will not fight, unless I am attacked." It would be hard to keep that promise, but for her sake he would at least try. He drew her close, lowering his head to whisper in her ear – probably the last chance he would have to do so, so it was bitter-sweet. She considered and then rested her hands upon his shoulders, as if she recognised this last embrace.

"Christine, whatever happens, know that I am glad that I died, for otherwise I would have been dead in my life. You gave me a chance to live in death, by loving you."

"I know. Your love gives me life, and yet every time I hear you say those words, I die a little as well." She stood a little on her toes, and to his surprise pressed her lips to his cheek, leaving a tear in her wake.

Swiftly he released her, his fingers screaming at the loss of this last touch, this last warmth, and instead turned towards the place where Nadir usually made his appearance, just in time to see Nadir emerge from nowhere at a run, dragging two shapes behind him. The look of astonishment on his old friend's face was, he had to admit even in this dark hour, quite funny; but his humour vanished at the sight of the Vicomte. Could he really laugh at this little boy, to whom he had done so much harm?

_Am I no better than the ones who doomed me?_

He smiled at the so-called rescue party. "We just keep running into each other this day, do we not, Raoul?"

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Again, I just _love_ this chapter. It's a complete opposite to the last one. I got down everything that I wanted to, in the order that I wanted. Erik and Christine said everything that I wanted them to say and I hope that they conveyed just the right sort of message. This chapter, I have decided, is the baby in my baby. (Only not like a Siamese twin that never got born, yuck!) I cuddle them both!**

**It's odd, but even though I said in 'The Uninvited' that I had been waiting nearly two years to write it, this chapter was an unexpected treat. At the start of this story, Christine was just Christine, and Erik was just Erik, characters which people use in their stories. I'm so happy by how far I've brought them, and how far they still have before them. (And no, that's not a spoiler.)**

**Most of all, it gave me a chance to express my own opinion of love. Forget sex, or money, or power; the best sort of relationship is one where you honestly feel happier and generally a better person for knowing and loving that person, and knowing they love you. These two, despite all their angst and troubles, nonetheless I think have that.**

**I'm so proud. (Goes off to collapse under a handy bush.)**

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Reviews for the half Irish seamstress!**


	54. Denouement

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. But I'll be laughing all the way to the review section.**

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You know what we need now? **

**_A sexy party! Ba ha ha ha ha!_**

**Eeeee….or maybe a _denouement._ That works too. (I couldn't say that word for the _longest_ time. I kept getting the pronunciation wrong. I could say numerous words, especially dinosaur names, by the time I was eight - blame numerous trips to the Natural History Museum - I even had a reading age of a ten or twelve year old -I still remember having to sit beside the teacher and read words out of a book - but it took me _eighteen_ years to say just one of many words. I still have some trouble with _chaise long._)**

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We followed it down into a big wood; and that night, while we were still in the wood, Toadflax died. He was clear-headed for a short time before and I remember something he said. Bluebell had been saying that he knew the humans hated us for raiding their crops and gardens and Toadflax answered, "That wasn't why they destroyed the warren. It was just because we were in their way. They killed us to suit themselves." **

**Watership Down, _by _Richard Adams.**

**(That man is my _idol. _I mean, he wrote a book about _bunnies_ and made it _epic! _And it makes you think about rabbits in a completely different way. Like the Matrix, only none of the rabbits wear dark glasses or bend spoons.)**

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Denouement

Before she had led the invaders into the tiny room, and faced down this old, seemingly harmless man, Meg had been burning, burning with anger and sorrow and the knowledge that her mother had kindled within her, a lifetime ago and on the other side of innocence that seemed lost to her now.

When she had run, at first leading her friends and then following Cecile's new gift, a gift which had come to aid them in their darkest hour, she had wondered if she would tell Carlotta to shoot the man outright when they discovered him, wherever he had hidden himself. Certainly he deserved a bullet through the head or heart; but he deserved much worse things as well. Still, her fury had made it difficult for her to think in such a manner. She wanted them to be the ones to deal the justice he had escaped for so long, and deal it in righteousness, in revenge for poor, poor Celandine.

_But there is someone who has far more claim to his blood. Be patient._

That was what she had realised, as she had spoken to the mirrors. Now, now that she was at last confronting the true enemy she had been aware of for so very long, she was cool, quiet, calm. The surface of the mirror had bled through the skin of her scalding hands as she had touched and caressed it, known it, loved it, and had flowed into her blood in gratitude for her love, washing away her black rage and leaving liquid silver in her veins. She had become a part of the mirror, and she would be a surface through which the truth would be revealed and confronted.

She took a step forward, confident that Carlotta was holding the gun steady from her position on the far right – or as far right as the limited space, the walls papered with sheets she had no time to look at or even acknowledge, would allow - and that the Comte would not suddenly start up and take her by surprise.

And she began.

"Good morning to you, Comte Philippe. You gave us quite a chase, you know."

The Comte smiled softly as he sat forward, making Cecile, who had crept around to Meg's right, draw back a little, but only a little. "I did indeed. But I must admit, I was surprised that you were able to get through the mirror room." He _was _surprised. She had seen it in his eyes when they had first burst into the little candle lit room, swinging around in the seat at the small desk to stare at them half uncomprehending of his situation, before he controlled himself.

He had been shocked. And what was more, for that briefest moment when he had seen them, lit up by the light of the single candle, glaring at him, she had seen that he had been _scared. _Somewhere deep inside that aged, handsome, odious face and cool manner, he was afraid of the three girls who had tracked him and hunted him down, following him even into this, his seemingly untouchable safe hold. Granted, that was probably because one of them was pointing a gun at him, and looked as if she knew how to use it; but also because…

…_he's…afraid of why we've come. He's afraid of what we know._

He had good reason to be afraid. _She_ knew. She knew _everything._

She took great delight in twisting the knife into the wound he had left himself open to, pointing out his greatest mistake. "_You_ showed me how to do it, though, Comte. When I first came here, do you remember that day? I certainly did. I was merely following the practical lesson you so very obligingly gave me on how to find the switch to open the door." She didn't say what the truth was; how could she possibly explain that the mirror had…_spoken _to her, somehow, let alone pointed her to the right door in that deceptive room to take? This was no time for speculation; this was a time for action.

The old man winced, but the smile slowly came back to his face. "In hindsight, that was a rather foolish action. Maybe I should have just left you in there to waste away, hmm?"

Two weeks ago she would have been afraid and raging against the abominable man, but now she shrugged off his meaningless threat easily. "But you _didn't_, Comte, and that may have made all the difference. Now, get up. You must come with us."

She was mildly annoyed when the Comte stayed seated, his hands clasping his knees. "I would prefer not to exert my already fragile health until I find out for what reason you have seen fit to track me down, and point a gun at me." He shot a snide glance at Carlotta, who merely glared back at him.

"You have damaged your health by running away from the fire in the ball room. In my mind, that is proof enough that you are guilty of _something, _Comte. You were guilty. You were scared. And you ran."

The Comte blinked as he turned to look at someone other than her for the first time since the conversation had begun. "What makes you think I am afraid, Mademoiselle Guidicelli?"

"I can sense your fear," Carlotta said, surprising Meg. Was the Comte's apprehension _that_ obvious? "As a matter of fact, I can sense that you have at least some guilt as well. I can taste it upon the air. You smell of it." The Spanish girl took a step forward, narrowing her eyes. "Be assured that we will take you wherever Meg wants to go, regardless of your health." One red eyebrow quirked in her face, and her set mouth softened slightly. "But I must admit, Meg, he is not alone in his desire. I too want to know why you have dragged us all the way up here. Is it something more than Celandine?"

Meg felt torn, though she was still calm despite her conflict. Heaven knew that she hadn't wanted to keep her friends in the dark more than she had to, and after all they had gone through they deserved _some _explanation about what was really going on. _But do I have time? _Who _knew_ what was happening 'downstairs', so to speak, at this very moment? Christine and Raoul and her mother needed her help, and she couldn't simply stand here and talk while that help was denied. She wasn't even sure how they would reach that place…

…_oh. Wait. Now I do._

The silvery whisper from the room behind her slipped her the idea, as neatly as a man slipping a love note into his sweetheart's hand. _Thank you, _she whispered, as she began to speak again.

"You're right, both of you," she said softly, folding her arms carefully. "You, Comte, wish to know why we have come to bring you justice, and you, Carlotta and Cecile, want to know the truth, the truth of this matter. I will tell you."

She closed her eyes for the briefest second, and then began to speak, remembering what her mother had told her the night that Christine had returned, and her curse had begun. She tasted the story, considered it while keeping it upon the tip of her tongue, and then she let it loose.

"Before you were even born, Comte Philippe, more than nearly eighty years ago now, your father, Charles de Chagny, was the Vicomte, living in the mansion that stood here before it was rebuilt. Am I right?"

"Of course you are. What of it?" Though his air was nonchalant, his eyes told a different story. _Good. You already dread what I know._

"It is this. When your father was a young man, about Raoul's age, he fell in love with a girl from the local village. She lived all alone in her house, she had no brothers or sisters and her parents were long dead, but she did not let that sorry weigh for down, for she was filled with so much joy in everything. She was a very beautiful girl, kind, clever, gentle, passionate, half wild and half divine. Her name was Magdalene." She saw him wince, and she swiftly pressed on. "Your father loved her deeply, truly, irrevocably. It went deeper than the lust a lord might have for a peasant girl he could take at his will; it was true love. He would have married her, had he the chance, but that was impossible, she was too low born. And besides, _she _didn't love him. Or she did, but only as a friend, the brother she had never had. He loved her too deeply to take her against her will."

"God bless and keep my father, but he was a fool." Comte Philippe's voice had lost its joviality; it was flat, dull and harsh. She ignored him and his words, ploughing ahead with the story.

"At length, your father was obliged to marry a noblewoman. It broke his heart, since he had given it to Magdalene. And she…something happened to her, when your father wed. One day she just packed up and left the village, with no hint or clue of where she was going. People said she had gone off dancing with the gypsies, and that only hurt Charles the more. But he did his duty, and got _you _upon his new wife."

She paused to swallow and simply draw breath, before the story spilled out again, uncontrollably, into the silence that surrounded her in a sea of candle light. "And then, nearly nine months after the marriage, Magdalene came back, as heavy with child as your mother, though _she _had no wedding ring to save the child from being called a bastard. Naturally the people turned their backs on her. But Charles still loved her, perhaps more than ever, and he supported her and did not abandon her, not even when she gave birth to a boy with only half a face and yellow eyes, a boy the people around her called a demon and would have drowned in any water deep enough, had they been allowed to. That boy's name was Erik."

Comte Philippe looked up abruptly, his mouth flying open, though he said nothing, and closed it again swiftly, breathing deeply. She could see his fingernails digging into the cloth of his trousers. The other two girls were breathing deeply now as well.

"And when _you _were born only a few days later, Comte Philippe, your father brought Magdalene up to the mansion and gave you to her, to put to her breast alongside Erik."

Meg paused again, and stared solemnly through the sallow light, at Comte Philippe's unmoving face. "Magdalene was your wet-nurse. Erik was…_is, _your milk brother. Even after you were both weaned, Charles made sure the connection between you lasted. He wanted you to see Erik as a true brother, since his own wife was less than willing to give him any more children after the trouble she had giving birth to you."

The Comte's hands had slid forward on his knees, as his head bowed. "Yes," he muttered. "Imagine what I suckled from that madwoman, eh?" He looked up, and his smile was now distinctly unpleasant. Cecile, she could see out of the corner of her eye, took another step back. "If you know all this, little Giry, presumably you know what happened to Magdalene as well?"

"I know," she retorted. The memory of it was repulsive. "When Erik was ten she was deemed insane, and she was taken to a mad house. She died there many years later. I still find that hard to believe, that Charles would do that, after-"

"Oh, you have _my_ mother to thank for that. A curiously spiteful woman, she was. She always resented Magdalene for giving me the milk that she herself wouldn't have provided in any case. And she was exceptionally jealous of how much my father loved my pretty little foster-mother, compared to her. Very pernickety. In the end, she managed to alert the proper authorities and to influence Father, and I'm sure you know the rest." He sighed, and his horrid smile faded into sadness. "Poor, poor Mama. It's quite sad what happened to her in the end, to say nothing of ironic. She sent her rival to a mad house, only to end her own days in a not very dissimilar situation when she went senile and had to be locked up. Magdalene's revenge, you might say."

"But that wasn't the end of it," Meg broke in, determined to take the story back for herself. "Your father was guilt-ridden over what he had done to the woman he had loved. He never really recovered from it. But he took care of Erik. He sent him to school, and educated him. He wanted him to have a fine future. But Erik didn't want the future the de Chagny family had planned for him. He went off on his own when he was about nineteen, and didn't come back for quite a few years. He went to Persia, didn't he? And many other places. When he came back, he agreed to rebuild the de Chagny mansion, and in its place he built _this." _

She waved her arm gently around her, taking in the whole room, and the building beyond it, and everything.

"He built it all for your family, even though he hated you. Every room and every hall and every wall he designed and ordered built, and it was built in record time. And just as the building was finished, your father died. And, apparently, in his will he left a fairly substantial amount of money and property to Erik, besides paying him for building the house, which was to be bequeathed to him as soon as he married." Meg tilted her head, strands of stray hair falling across her neck. "You knew about this?"

"Of course I knew. I was there when it was read out, after all. And if you think there is something in my father leaving such a gift to…_him, _your guess is as good as mine. No one ever knew who Erik's father was. For all I know, little Magdalene might have had a change of heart and opened her legs for Father, or only for a gypsy. Where are you going with this, little Giry?"

"I will tell you where I am going with this. Soon after Comte Charles de Chagny died, you arranged a marriage for Erik, with a girl from his old village. Her family agreed, because of the money that would be his. She agreed. Erik agreed, I don't know why." The taste of decades old blood was in the air, upon her tongue, driving out the cold taste of the mirror. "And then, on the wedding day, as he was making his way to the church, you lay in wait with some men, and then you all attacked him."

"Yes." His voice was now barely audible, in that still, secret room.

"You stabbed him in the side, your own foster brother. He fled, pursued by those you sent after him, and he died alone in the dark of the woods."

"He did."

She asked the question she had longed to know the answer to, even as she had blazed wit hanger then and now flowed with calm and vengefulness. "Why?"

Comte Philippe choked, and then suddenly burst out, "I…I wanted to save her. To save her from being married to that…to that _thing_. How can I even call it human? In my mind, that was a fate worse than death. That poor, beautiful young woman, being bedded by a walking corpse; what red blooded man would have allowed it? So I…I _saved_ her. That was why I did it, since you want to know so very badly, and came all the way up here to ask me. I did it to save her, to save from being enslaved to my _monster_ of a foster brother."

"That isn't the only reason why you did it," Cecile overrode him, perhaps even to her own surprise. "There was the inheritance which would become his, which you begrudged him."

"And my mother," Meg added, glaring at the dreadful man, "my mother told me; she said that you wanted the girl for yourself. That you wanted her to be your mistress, rather than Erik's wife."

"Your mother," Comte Philippe said, looking back up at her and attempting to speak coolly, "or whoever fed her that lie, assumed too much. I did not want her at all." But the comte's voice betrayed him. It told them not to believe the foul uses it was being put to, to hear the truth behind the lies that had survived for so long.

"I did not want her," he tried again, wretchedly. "She was so beautiful; it was such a sin, and such a waste! _Everything_ was wasted on him, from the very beginning. He pretended to thank us for what we gave him, while all the while he cursed us all behind our backs. All the ridiculous affection that my father had for him, he scorned and refused. And _what_ did he do after that?"

He brought his fist down on the table, so hard that the book lying upon the surface fell off and landed on the floor; Cecile, fastidious as ever, quickly darted forward and picked it up, just as quickly jumping back out of his reach. He appeared not to notice her action, his wide, desperate eyes staring only at her, letting out the horrible secret that had twisted him inside for so long. "He went all the way to Persia to become a little pet torturer! We raised and fed and nourished a very _demon_, and my father was too blinded by his love and loyalty to see that. But _I_ did. I saw all too well. And once the terms of Erik's marriage was announced I knew, I knew that I _had_ to get rid of him, somehow. For _her_ sake, and for my own sake."

"But it did not go according to plan, did it?" Carlotta spoke out at last, her long disused voice strange and harsh after the torment her throat had gone through, tinged wit hdisgust at some taste in her mouth that was not natural.

Comte Philippe gave her a smile that twisted his face like a wound. "It did not. He was not expected to fight back as violently as he did. I thought that he would be taken by surprise, but curse him, he seemed almost to be ready and waiting for us, as if he _knew_ what we were going to do. He knocked down two of my men, and actually cut down three others. And he left me a token of his appreciation in return for the death blow that I gave him…"

He trailed off, and drummed his fingers against his leg, the leg upon which he limped, upon which he had always limped, for as long as the two girls had known him, and long before that.

"What happened to the girl?" Meg prompted, struggling to keep her face calm and bland. _Heavens, the foul thing looks like he _enjoys_ remembering what he did!_

Comte Philippe's smile faded at once. "She was such an _excitable_ thing. So passionate, and so wilful. Poor little thing, she didn't deserve to be trapped in such a dreadful prison of a marraige. I hoped that she would be grateful for her release towards God, towards heaven, towards _me_. But when I went to find her, after…"

Suddenly he gave a small choking sound, choking on the sharp bones of a long dead knowledge, and half turned away from them.

Carlotta kept the pistol firmly trained on him as she had all this while, frowning. "What is this? What happened to her? What happened to the girl?" she asked softly, suspiciously. When he made no answer, she risked a look at Meg.

"Tell her, Philippe," Meg ordered coldly. "This is _your _story, so you tell it. I won't tell this for you. Tell her what happened." She had no pity left for him. All her pity was for the ones that he had burned with his life.

Her icy words, in an odd way, seemed to calm the old man. He took a deep breathe, and spoke, though obviously loathing his words and the event they retold.

"I found her. I found lying at the very entrance to the church where she was to have married _him_, her blood staining the stones and dyeing her white wedding dress and seeping into her veil. She – she was dead. Of _course_ she was dead. No one knew how she did it, but she'd climbed up to the bell tower, and then, then she'd jumped. Jumped and fell and split her head open, and spilled her blood and her brains out on the holy ground."

Meg heard Carlotta gasp with shock and saw out of the corner of her eye that she quickly made the sign of the cross, though still holding the gun steady. She herself was not shocked at all, though. She'd heard it all before.

"Of course, she must have thought that I was Erik," the Comte went on, apparently not noting their reactions. "She hated the very thought of Erik. She killed herself rather than marry him."

Meg shook her head. "That is not the story that my mother told, Comte Philippe. She said that the girl was happy to marry Erik, that she was enchanted by him when she saw him those times he passed through the village, that she hoped that she would be able to cure his anger, his loneliness. She was a beautiful child, and as fragile as she was beautiful; and when she heard what had happened to the man she idolised, the atrocities committed in her name, she was broken. _You_ destroyed her, Philippe, as surely and truly as you killed your foster brother. She could not bear to live with the horror of what you had done, or the horror of what you might yet do, and so _she_ was the one who had the decency to take her own life, in the end. Is this not so?"

"Yes." Her words made his shoulders bow, like a weight crushing him down. "The news came to her while she was waiting. When she learned that I was following after, she was terrified, but determined as well. She said that she would not let me get her, and she ran away from the altar. Her father chased her up the bell tower, but she jumped through his fingers and he didn't save her." The Comte shook his grey head. "But there was more. When she jumped and she shattered her head, she shattered her mother's mind inside her skull. The poor woman went mad when she saw her daughter's skull split open on the stones. She hanged herself in their home the next day. Only one was meant to die. Instead three died."

"What was the girl's name?" Cecile asked, softly. _The name of one slain by injustice, not by her own hand. A dreamer's name. A damned name._

"Buquet. Lucie Buquet. The head groundskeeper is her brother. He was only a baby when it happened, he does not know or remember."

_Buquet…_It seemed odd and yet strangely fitting, that this whole journey of truth and revelation had started with Buquet and ended with him as well. But there was no time to reflect, for Comte Philippe was looking straight at her. "And how do _you _know all this, little Giry?"

"My mother, as I told you. She was the daughter of one of the men you sent to hunt down Erik. The only one to escape the 'accidents' you laid for them." She watched his face crumple like a collapsing sheet from a wash line. "Far more than three died, Comte. Your men died to keep your shame a secret. You turned away from the church and its message and its sentiments, for Lucie's blood stained your feet, and instead of a crucifix you could only see her mother hanging from a beam. And everywhere you look, there is your dead brother, the one you're denied and spun stories about and condemned to be remembered as a demon even after his death, because you cannot forgive yourself for what you did and you cannot face the world if it knows what you did. And you hurt Celandine."

He flinched again at that, as from a bee sting, and she turned the sting into a dagger and pushed into his ribs. "You killed your great grandchild, in the cruellest possible manner, and I for one will see that you suffer for it. You've been waiting for this sentence for a long time, Comte Philippe de Chagny; and by God we'll take you to the one who has the right above all to administer it. Now, stand up and come with us. Now."

Still he sat in his chair, though considerably less cool than before. "And what if I refuse, gentle ladies?"

"Then we will shoot you in the foot and take you with us anyway," Carlotta said plainly. At the look on his face, she added, "Or Cecile could always poke you in the back with the sword."

The Comte turned around rather sharply at that, to see that little Cecile had picked up a sword he had leaned long ago by the little desk, unsheathed it and was holding it with both hands, pointing it straight at him. "You _dare_, you little hussy-"

"Yes, I _do _dare, sir," Cecile replied quietly. "And you might want to be careful with your words, sir. I'm not very used to using this thing. My hand just might _slip _by accidentand poke you somewhere rather painful."

"_Why-" _Comte Philippe began, and then stopped and composed himself, standing up. "Very well, ladies, you present a very thorough argument. I will make a bargain with you; if _you_," he said to Cecile, who drew back but still held the sword fairly steady, "give me the book you have there in your little hands, I will come with you willingly."

Cecile did not seem to need to give this much consideration. "You'll come with us whether I give you the book or not," she said, taking the sword in one hand for a quick moment and tossing the book to Meg, bringing her free hand quickly back to the hilt. "So I think I'll give it to _Meg, _instead, if it's all the same to you, sir."

Meg smiled sweetly as the Comte turned a face as dark as thunder to her. "Good. Now that that's settled, follow me, please, Comte."

As Cecile and Carlotta moved to either side of the old man, prodding him forward with their weapons, she stole a quick glance at the book in her grasp; a very familiar book indeed.

_This book _again?_ What's so special about _this _book? Surely poems aren't _that _useful?_

No doubt Comte Philippe had some use for it, use enough to steal it. Well, there would be time enough to work this out later. She walked forward, into the mirror room once again.

She gloried as she saw her reflections smile tiredly at her. _This is nearly over, _she heard them whisper in union. _The truth is known. Soon you will all be free._

"Meg?" Carlotta asked calmly from behind her, and above her, and around her, and below her. "Where are we going now?"

The mirror in front of her was singing with their sweet, subtle plan. She smiled, and her sisters all around her smiled as well, as she saw a path to her real sister through the silvery maze.

_I am not afraid. Not any more. The only thing in the mirror now…_

"Carlotta, take hold of the back of my dress. You too, Comte, and Cecile, make _sure_ he does so and keeps hold of it." She didn't need to look around to know that it was done. The mirrors whispered that it was so.

…_the only thing in the mirror now…_

She breathed in and out, and placed her free palm upon the surface. The mirror surged up joyously to meet her, just as it had done to Raoul, but unlike Raoul she loved it where she had hated it before. Hate was only love with its back turned.

"Let me see," she whispered, and the mirrors obeyed, and she walked forward into the surging cold, taking those who clung in shock to her in her wake.

_...is us._

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I find that quite a lot of this was inspired by Victorian melodrama, most likely Charles Dickens. Of course, old Charlie got the chapters out a lot faster than I did. And I must admit, though I do have some pretty odd ideas, I don't think I'd ever use 'spontaneous combustion' as a method of killing off a character. Those Victorians; they had some pretty funny ideas, eh? **

**It's been a while since I wrote the chapter 'Page black, page white', where you first learn Erik's mother's name, and I must admit I was a little tempted to change it to Madeline. Even though I liked the name, a lot, it would have been less confusing considering the way some people pronounce 'Magdalene' i.e. '_maud-lin. _Not exactly a very pretty name, is it? But that I remembered that if this thing were written in French, Magdalene would automatically become Madeline anyway, since that is how the French pronounce the second name of she of _The Da Vinci Code _fame. So, it stayed. And I'm kinda relieved.**

**Now, on to this whole wet nurse thing, for those of you who don't have the know. In the old days i.e. practically every century before the twentieth, when a noblewoman had a baby the child was at once given to a more commonly born woman who a) already had a baby suckling or b) had recently lost their own baby, so they could feed it instead of the natural mother. Partly this was because it was unseemly for a noblewoman to breastfeed her own children; partly it was because feeding your baby apparently usually ruins your bust, and rich ladies for some reason – especially in the last five hundred years or so – wanted to stuff their lovely bosoms into tight fitting dresses so that men could drool over them (I really have _no_ real idea _why_ the sight of mamillary glands are so fascinating to the heterosexual male, no matter what size they are); but mostly it was because if the baby isn't feeding and no new milk is produced (something called lactation, which we won't go into here), gradually the body comes into metaphorical 'heat' again, and the woman can have another baby – which is important when it comes to producing lots of lovely little legitimate heirs in record for your dear old hubby. Boobs: regulated for _your_ convenience!**

**As for the milk-brother business, wet-nurses and their natural children often benefited from the service the mother provided. Aside from getting paid straight out for the job, the children who had suckled alongside the noble child often got favours and good jobs from their foster sibling when they grew older. The family of Marie Antoinette's foster brother coined it in from the royal connection with the little archduchess.**

**And finally, kudos to anyone who spotted the Susan Kay reference - altered - and a tribute to a character we haven't seen much of (and didn't get to suffer this fate after all!).**

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We are getting _very _near the end! I am _so _excited! **

**Happy Passover, for those who've celebrated it! Happy Easter, for those who do celebrate it! And to anyone who doesn't celebrate either – well, just have a nice time, whatever your beliefs. **

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress! **


	55. All as it should be

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. Three chapters from the end, you should know that by now.**

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Well, hello again. Dreadfully sorry to everyone who's been waiting so very, _very_**** long for this, but…yeah, real life can be a right **_**pain**_** in the (insert appropriate bodily orifice of your choice). There've been ups and downs, and further downs, and ups that outnumbered the downs in the end. I had to study like I never did before for my exams, and if I didn't Mum and Dad would get all sad and disappointed, which, I can tell you, is far worse than having them angry with me. It makes you want to wrench something internal out to get rid of the guilt.**

**Also, I've effectively left school for good – not expelled, you understand, of course; I only had exams to take and the last day to attend, which should explain my absence until now, so essentially that part of my education is finished.**

**It's odd. You think about such a moment probably ever since you start school – I know there are certainly times I've wanted to walk out the respective gate and never come back – and yet, now that I've finished a process that's taken about fourteen years(give or take kindergarten), I really don't feel anything. Relief, regret…well, maybe a little bit of regret.**

**Yeah, so I'm not going to depress you anymore. I'll let the story do that.**

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**...'I'm glad you like them, but, to be honest, they make me very gloomy. She seems to paint every "death" theme there is. Look at this one of Joan of Arc – she was martyred – and this one, "The Legend of the Wandering Jew", and this one, "The Medieval Dance of Death."' **

'**Do they all want to die?'**

**The question stopped Mrs. Buck in her tracks. She looked confused, she flicked her eyes over the paintings and back to Isadora Elzbeth's face.**

'**My God,' she whispered, 'I never saw that before. Yes, they do. They all want to die.'**

**Isadora Elzbeth, by Caroline Barry.**

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"**No one is born evil. No one."**

**The Tulip Touch, **_**by **_**Anne Fine**

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**When fishes flew and forests walked **

**Some moment when the moon was blood**

**Then surely I was born;**

**With monstrous and sickening cry **

**And ears like errant wings,**

**The devil's walking parody **

**On all four-footed things,**

**The tattered outlaw of the earth,**

**Of ancient crooked will;**

**Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,**

**I keep my secret still.**

**Fools! For I also had my hour;**

**One far fierce hour and sweet:**

**There was a shout about my ears,**

**And palms before my feet.**

**The Donkey **_**by **_**G.K. Chesterton.**

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Be grateful, you lucky lot. I _was _****going to split this into two chapters, but then I decided that, kind, sweet and loving authoress that I am, I didn't **_**really**_** want to put you all through so many agonies while you waited for the next update, since we are, after all, so close to the end, and you've been waiting patiently for **_**so**_** long. Also, I reasoned that you might rant about it so much in your reviews (which are appreciated, I assure you!) I'd be driven almost insane.**

_**Never **_**underestimate the importance of a good rant.**

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**All as it should be**

She felt that she might shatter and crumble like glass, like a falling chandelier, like the chandelier than had fallen not so long ago, if she so much as moved.

But it was all she could do to keep herself still as she gazed steadily at poor, dear Raoul's face, hardly noticing those who stood either side of him. She had been afraid when Erik had first told her of his approach that he would be angry, and that his anger would make him reckless, even suicidal. Heaven knew that it had made him reckless before, as Meg and the others had informed her, when she had been missing and he had feared the worst. But now his face was calm even though his hair, somehow white streaked again, hung about his face messily ; and he gazed quietly at the both of them without surprise or rage. The look sent a quiver through the fracture she was sure she could feel within her heart.

_How can he be so calm; how can he be so calm when he sees the state we are in? _

But it appeared that all three trespassers were more prepared than she had expected. Certainly Raoul did not simply surge forward, abruptly shouting at Erik to release her, nor did Madame Giry or Nadir say anything to provoke either of the two men. They seemed…somehow expectant, as if waiting for herself or Erik to do something or say something, anything, to remedy this situation. The tension was filling her like a hollow vessel; soon it would overflow.

_What I will do then, I do not know._

She risked taking her glance off Raoul for a moment, as if letting him out of her sight for a few heartbeats or only one would doom him, to look sideways at Erik. Here was another surprise, for Erik did not appear to be angry at all, as she had feared. Perhaps he was truly taking his vow to heart, for there was no deadly fury in his half-face; only, perhaps, a morbid curiosity, as he stared at her fiancée and the dilapidated state in which he was in.

Turning back to look at Raoul, she realised with perhaps some disapproval that, probably for the first time, the two men shared the same expression. Erik was just as much an oddity to Raoul as Raoul was to Erik, their outer beauty ruffled and in Erik's case exposed as less than skin deep. It was obviously an intriguing experience for the both of them, and maybe that had unconsciously saved Raoul's life, but it did not please her in the slightest.

_Could they not simply overcome their prejudices of each other?_ _Could they not make peace in some way? _But that was as stupid a thought as she could manage.

In the end it was Raoul who spoke first, and she was reassured somewhat by the level tone of his voice. Raoul, even when he looked calm, often betrayed his true feeling through the emotion in his words, and at the moment he was most likely as calm as it was possible to be.

"Christine? Are you all right?"

She could have begun to cry, especially considering the truly wretched state she was in. He had come down to the underworld himself, passing who knew what on the way – and the first thing he asked was about her welfare, utterly disregarding the one who had taken her even while he stared calmly at him.

That was Raoul. Foolish, brave, simple, loving; that was _all _Raoul.

"Yes, Raoul, I am," she replied, as loudly as she could to show there was absolutely nothing wrong with her voice. "I'm not hurt. Are _you_ all right?" But before he could reply there was an interruption from her left.

"You insult me, Vicomte," Erik said bitingly, his voice belying his still placid face. "Did you truly think that I would harm her?"

"I can never tell what _you_ might do, Erik, considering all the things you have done since we first became aware of each others' existence."

"A whole sentence from your mouth, and yet not a single insult in it. I am impressed." Erik paused, taking in the sight of Raoul's face again, and now his mouth split into a grin again, showing the yellowed teeth. She hated to think it, knowing it was treacherous to do so, but he really did not look at his best when he smiled without his mask on, since the upturned corner of his mouth only wrinkled the ruined flesh on that side of his face. He was no doubt aware of this, and even turned his face slightly towards Raoul so that he had a full view of it. "Not a very pretty sight, is it, Vicomte?"

"No," Raoul agreed softly, "it isn't. But that _doesn't_ mean I'm going to wrinkle my nose in disgust at the sight of you either." He stepped forward, the water lapping at his shoes in apparent annoyance. "We have not come here to fight, Erik, I promise you – we came here to talk."

Christien looked at him in pure astonishment. Was this the Raoul who, not so long ago, had brandished a pistol at Erik and threatened to shoot out his eyes? That man could not possibly have been more different than this one. Why, he had lost the pistol along with his fury. Something along the way must have infused him with calm, a great calm, enough to quell his rage utterly. What could have done such a thing, save a miracle?

Erik, meanwhile, stared at him blankly before letting out a short, sarcastic laugh tinged with disbelief that she could feel against her skin, like blunt knife. "_Talk?_ You have come down here, escaping from a burning mansion, through the depths of the underworld, to talk to me? You never cease to astonish me, Vicomte."

"Indeed, Erik," Nadir called from behind Raoul. "We – that is, Madame Giry and I – believed it would be more productive, and after some persuasion Raoul agreed with us."

Erik continued to stare at them, though his eyes were narrowing rapidly. "Then what do you wish to talk about? You had better be quick, Vicomte; my patience is waning fast."

_This is going much too far. I won't let this happen. Not again. _She quickly reached out and put a hand on his arm, gripping it tightly to remind him of her presence. She even dug her nails into the dead flesh, ignoring the new feel of it beneath her soft fingers. Feeling did not matter any longer, if ever it did.

"You promised me, Erik," she said quietly, her voice hardly making it out of her mouth. "You _said_ you would not hurt any of them."

His flesh relaxed slightly under her touch, and he chuckled again as he looked over at her, and for that time his eyes were warm again. She felt her heart shudder at such a look. She would give anything for him to always be so content, if only it were not at the expense of others. "I _did_ promise that, didn't I?" He looked back at Raoul and Nadir and Madame Giry, his face stern again. "You may approach, but no further than the foot of the dais. Understood?"

The three nodded and they stepped forward until Raoul's foot brushed the side of the platform. Now she looked down at them, and they looked up at her. She could see how very tired Raoul and Madame Giry looked, and it seemed as if even Nadir was on the edge of exhaustion, spirit though he was. At once she felt remorse stab at her like a sharp needle, among all the other emotions she had to contend with; all this time while she had been absorbed in her own feelings and muted confessions, she had no idea what they had endured to get here – and all to find her and Erik like this? She could hardly meet their eyes any longer, she felt so ashamed. She would have turned away if she had not feared that she might miss something useful pass between her two suitors, something important that could aid or thwart her intent to bring peace between them, by any means. And she would perhaps need to remind Erik of his truce again.

In the meantime, her knees finally seemed to have decided to give way beneath her, and so she sank down, her stained white skirts billowing about her, and she reached her hands out to Raoul. At once he took them and more than that, he brought one hand to his face and the other to rest upon his shoulder, perilously close to his heart.

He had certainly never done _that _before. Neither had she…no, she had, and only a few minutes ago at that, with quite a different man. Her hands had gone lower than this, as well. She could hardly think of that time while touching Raoul's perfect skin and feeling _such _emotion sweep through her. _Is it mine, or is it his? _She hardly knew anymore. Her mind was so plagued now that she could hardly even remember what she had said clearly; but she remembered the nature of it all too well.

Naturally she could not see Erik's face from her position at this point, but he did not sound pleased at all at this open display of affection between them as he spoke: "So, you have come to _talk, _Vicomte. What have you come to talk about, exactly?"

Raoul never even took his eyes away from her as he slowly, gently kissed her thumb, and then her palm as she hardly breathed in shock at his actions – _oh, my -_ and when she heard Erik hiss only then he spoke out: "I wish for you to release Christine. I want you to give her the right to choose her fate, instead of constantly deciding for her. I want you to let her choose between us, Erik, and I want you to be happy with her choice, as you were never happy with what life and death dealt _you_. That is now my one desire."

"What could _you _possibly know of my life and death, little Vicomte?" But for the first time since the intruders had arrived, there was a falter of confidence in Erik's voice. He was actually _worried. _She could feel it, like dampness upon the air. This was obviously not going the way he had planned. Probably he had thought to taunt Raoul for his own amusement, twisted though it might be, and not to be bewildered by the new knowledge his rival displayed.

She stared at Raoul's blue eyes as he went on doggedly. He did not even seem to be looking at her anymore, even as her hands cupped his face and stroked his hair, more for something to do in her nervousness than because she felt the extreme need to.

"Everything, Erik. Everything. I know…I know who killed you." Raoul's face twisted, as if he might cry, but he ironed away the expression almost at once. "And it came close to breaking me, I assure you. But I know. And, Erik…I'm so sorry." As far as she could tell, he was completely sincere.

Swiftly she looked up at Erik, and never had she seen him more completely taken aback. He actually started backwards, his eyes widening like a cat startled, his mouth open in astonishment; but then his eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth like a cat angered. "What?" he said, slowly and dangerously, as if weighing up whether or not to strike Raoul dead on the spot.

_I don't understand. I don't understand!_ She had to ask.

"Raoul?" she whispered, spreading her fingers out over his cheek, her eyes trying to meet and hold his. "What are you talking about? What are you sorry for? You, of all people in this whole business, have done _nothing_ wrong!"

Raoul looked at her again, and she quailed at what she saw, for his eyes looked more dead than Erik's ever had at all. "It is not that, Christine. It is not what _I_ have done. It is more what my family have done."

"Well? _What_ have they done?"

"Vicomte-" Erik started, very close behind her, but at once Raoul reached up and grabbed her wrist, holding it close as he spoke urgently and swiftly over the protesting words of his rival.

"Christine, it was _Grandpère._ My grandfather was the one who ordered Erik killed. Erik was his foster-brother. My grandfather thrust a sword into his side, and the blood loss killed him. It was my family that killed Erik, and my grandfather who ordered the deed, and even carried it out. I carry the weight and the shame of Erik's death on my shoulders, and the burden of my grandfather's foul deed."

There was a pause between when she heard his words and when their meaning slammed into her, like a sword thrust to her own gut. _Oh. _

_**Oh.**_

She had not known. All this time, she had not known, not fully known. And now, oh, oh…

…now, at last, she saw why Erik had been so furious when she had mentioned Raoul's family name. Now she understood truly why he had looked as if he wished to kill her, during that brief moment of fear. Now she really knew why he hated Raoul so, more than simply because he was his rival. The de Chagny family had truly taken everything from him. They had taken his mother, his happiness, his hope; they had even taken his life, and now they claimed the one that he loved.

At last, at _last_, after so very, very long, she understood.

"Let go of me," she said, as softly as she could. Raoul's face stayed calm in the face of her new coldness, and even his eyes stayed fairly dead, but she fancied dully that she could see something twisting through them, like a snake twisting through frost.

"But…" He began, more as something to say than as a protest.

"_Please, _Raoul, just…please, let go of me."

When he had at last released her wrist she stood up carefully and turned away from all of them so that they could not see her face, looking only at her feet in their tattered, grubby silken slippers. As she walked slowly past Erik she felt her dress brush against his hand, but he made no movement to stop her or to do anything else. For that she was glad. At this moment she wanted no contact of any sort. If anyone touched her, she might actually scream. She might break, like fragile china, digging into the flesh of the ones around her.

She was cold. She was so cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers clutching hard at her sleeves, and kept on walking until she reached the nearest mirror. She knew it was there, even without looking, because it was even colder than she felt. She was freezing. Like Erik had, a long time back now.

Behind her, very far away and long ago, she could hear Erik speak. _"Why did you tell her that, Vicomte?"_

She breathed in, sucking in what air she could, and looked up at her reflection, and found at first that she could hardly meet her own eyes. What had she become, that she avoided even her own eyes?

_So this is what it has come to. I am torn between them. I will be ripped apart, by them and by what I know. _

"_I wanted her to know, Erik," _Raoul replied, from centuries back and a lifetime away._ "She had a _right_ to know."_

She looked at herself in the surface stolidly: a bedraggled bride, her veil and bouquet gone, her dress torn and dirtied, one of her gloves lost, her shoes falling to pieces. Her face was paler than ever and her hair was a _complete_ mess; her eyes were very red though she hadn't been crying. Or at least, she thought she had not been crying. With the confusion her mind was in, she was no longer sure anymore, but the sight of her eyes was riveting.

They were so dark she felt as if she were looking down tunnels, into her very soul. _Was I ever this hopeless? Did I ever look at myself and see such a sight, before I went astray and met Erik? I don't know. I don't know._

_I don't know anything any longer. It's too much, too soon._

"_You have another reason, Vicomte. Why? I do not want your pity. I do not want _anything_ from you."_

She had been happy. In an extremely odd way, she had been happy. She had admitted the truth, to Erik if not to any other. Perhaps that was why it hurt so much now.

She should be crying. _Should I?_ She should be weeping frantically. She should be sobbing. After all, Raoul's grandfather had killed Erik; surely that was reason for her to cry. She was engaged to a man she loved, but his family had killed another man that she loved, whom they should never have harmed or hurt because he had not deserved it, he had deserved nothing so terrible as to be betrayed in such a manner. The truth had been kept from her for so long, and heavens, how was she supposed to think about it without breaking down? A few moments ago she had been wound tight enough to snap, like a lute string.

_I would have splintered and I would have dug into their hearts, into all their hearts. Like a gun shot, only much, much sharper. Like a sword blade into their sides._

_Like the thorn of a rose into a finger…_

No, she did not think like that any longer. That moment of fear and frustration was fading from her. Her dark eyes were dry now as they had always been, and they looked at her, oh so very old, out of a young woman's face. She hunched into herself, keeping the frost in her soul inside, and the fire that raged behind her out. Dimly in the mirror she saw Raoul place his hands upon the dais, as if he would pull the legs from under his rival and must quell the urge by doing something else with his arms.

"_I want her to choose. And yes, I admit I hope to God she'll choose me. But she needs to have that choice, Erik. You understand that, don't you?"_

She had found, then - as she listened blandly to Raoul's words, at first hardly understanding - to her very great surprise, that she was not really, truly sad. She was not angry either. Yes, she could certainly _feel _the sadness and the anger, remorse and growing fury, but strangely they were not her own feelings; they did not belong to her at all. She was aware of them, but she was not truly experiencing them. As if she were a hollow vessel that a raging storm was pouring into, churning flames and pieces of ice, the rage was calming and even ceasing, leaving only peace in its wake. The ice put out the fire, and the fire melted the ice; the sadness calmed the anger, and the anger erased the sadness.

_Daddy said, in the stories he told me, that the world began in fire and ice. He said that it might end in fire and ice as well. But…can fire and ice help someone to live? _

"_Perhaps. But I also know that I cannot trust you, Vicomte."_

Peace. That was what she felt. Peace. _Relief._ She knew the truth now. Erik had not told her, because the hatred of the de Chagny family was his own, and he had not wanted her to be poisoned by it. Raoul, instead, had had the courage to tell her, when he could just as easily have kept it a secret and left her ignorant. She knew, and while at first it had been like a stab to the heart, now it was like the sweetness of healing balm. Her heart was now like a calm, cool sea, which only rippled instead of churning.

_I am brimming over._

"_Erik, please, I simply want-"_

And her eyes, as she looked at herself, were no longer old as she had first believed. They were sage, which was different. Somehow, some way, she was not afraid anymore.

"_Oh, spare me, _Raoul. _Do you think you can win me over? Lord, your grandfather has withered, and yet you rise up with his poison in your mouth. What will it take for your get to leave me in peace?"_

Standing under the earth the two men, one living, one dead, who loved her and who hated each other, argued behind her. Strangely, the angrier they became, the more calm she herself felt. Her water cooled their fire and their ice. She watched Erik's teeth grind and Raoul's face frown before looking back at herself. If this was yet another punishment that fate had devised for her, then this time she could simply rise above it and conquer it.

She smiled. This was no small thing for her. Perhaps back when she was a normal woman she would have let it defeat her, but now she was stronger. It was not Raoul's fault, nor was it Erik's. She would not, could not blame either of them.

"_I am not my grandfather, and I thank God for it. I am sorry for what he did to you, but you _cannot_ continue to condemn us for it."_

Now she looked around at last, to see Erik and Raoul glaring at each other, and she hardly knew which one of them she loved the more, and her heart sang with joy and sorrow together. But before she could speak, another voice cut through the air.

"_Enough!" _She stared in amazement. Madame Giry, probably one of the most elegant and refined people she knew, was scrambling up the steps onto the dais, rather hampered by her skirts. Once there she glared at the two men, who had obviously forgotten their argument and were clearly as dumbfounded as she herself was feeling. "Cease this quarreling immediately! It does you no good, and besides, you should be intent upon something far more important than a petty rivalry. You are both adults, even if one of you is cursed and the other is dead!" She turned her back on them and marched over towards her, anger clear upon her face, anger Christine could actually feel.

"Men!" the older woman hissed, as she grabbed hold of her arm. Christine was torn between the urge to giggle and the urge to gawp. Over or under the earth, Madame Giry seemed to be the same as ever. Both their skirts brushed against the mirror and Giry began to pull her away.

Perhaps that was the explanation for what suddenly happened next.

* * *

Raoul always thought of what followed his revelation, and his furious argument and glaring match with Erik, as more dreamlike than anything else. His entrance to the lair, what he had told Christine, even coming face to face with the walking corpse once again, all these things were understandable. He could comprehend them, he could accept them. What came next, he could hardly accept at all. 

Where else but in a dream would he suddenly see Meg Giry's face emerge from the surface of the mirror, as if through water? He had done his best to forget that horrendous night when his hands had plunged through and delivered Christine wet and weeping into the Land of the Living, so to see Meg do this was a dreadful reminder of his nightmare. It was as if the chill of the mirror, still in the pain in his bones, had surged through him once more, stronger even than when it had leeched his hair of its colour and all his strength from him. He felt sweat start out at once upon his skin at the very sight of that pretty face, like a mask being thrust out from a wall that he had known to be solid only a minute ago.

But it was even more dreamlike when Meg's face looked about, and appeared happy with what it saw – _who could _possibly _be happy _here?- and the rest of her body proceeded to follow, the mirror surface clinging only faintly to her sleeves and her skirts, pulling away from her hair like springy branches. And not only that, but three other personages then followed her at once – there was Carlotta, still holding his pistol, Cecile holding a sword, and between them…

Between them, there was his grandfather, looking rather browbeaten, Carlotta and Cecile each holding one of his arms. His shoulders were sunk, he looked…it was so strange to see him so…_defeated._

_What in the world? How…?_ How could that monster have come here? How could _any_ of them have come here? Even as he stared at the man he cold now hardly acknowledge as his grandsire, Comte Phillipe looked down at him and stopped where he stood, his mouth opening in surprise.

"Raoul," he managed. "How did you-" But Raoul was ready, and shot him back an answer as sharp as a knife blade.

"_Murderer."_

Comte Philippe started backwards at the poison in his voice. He thought that he might choke on it himself. But Meg paid him no heed whatsoever. It was her mother she turned to, who now felt as bewildered as he secretly did, no doubt. She certainly looked it, at any rate; she was grasping poor Christine's arm so tightly it was all Christine could do to disguise her pain.

"We found him, Mother. We brought him. Thank goodness you were standing by the mirror at the time and I could see you through its surface, or we might have been wandering around forever!"

Madame Giry stared back at her, for even this unshakable woman was being shaken at last by what she had seen. Her mouth opened and shut a few times, before she managed to get the words out, and even then they sounded as if they came from far away, perhaps even from the world she had left behind and was perhaps now desperately wishing she could get back to. "Meg, you just _walked_ out of a _mirror_."

"Yes, we did, didn't we?" Meg, entirely unconcerned, turned next to Christine and smiled at her. "I'm glad you're safe, Christine. You look as well as can be hoped." She passed her a book, a book that had been hidden in her hand until then, a book that looked oddly familiar…

"You need to read this, quickly, and more thoroughly than you did before. Please." Finally the blonde girl turned to Erik, and even her face, far more lighthearted than it had been the last time he had seen her – _how can that be? _– paled a little at her first sight of the wretched dead man. But then she gulped and said softly, "Carlotta, Cecile, let him go now."

At once the other two girls released their hold on Comte Philippe the Elder and stepped backwards, Carlotta never lowering the gun and Cecile keeping a tight hold on the sword, which was out of its sheath. They, too, looked different. There was far more colour in Carlotta's face, and Cecile no longer looked afraid – of _anything._

But he didn't care about that now. He didn't even care about Erik, his enemy. All he cared about was getting up onto the platform and wringing the Comte's neck, snapping the bones of the one who had caused so much misery and death. He moved to clamber violently upwards, but it was Erik's voice, of all things, that stopped him.

"Peace, Vicomte. This argument is now between the Comte and myself, not you."

"_Erik."_ His grandfather's voice made him look up, to see that the old man was gazing intently at the one he had just been thinking of. He wasn't shocked so much now as intently curious. And Erik…oh, Erik was angry, he could tell that now. His anger was worse than it was with _him, _as the rival for Christine's love. This was more than fire; this was cold fury, burning and freezing in every part of his frame.

"I knew it was you, when I saw you in the ballroom. How could you be anyone else? Is this all a dream?" his grand- _no_, he could not think like that any longer. It was no blood relation of his that spoke; it was simply the Comte who went on, nothing more. Nothing more, or he would go mad with it, mad with what _he _had done.

But it was hard. It was as hard as when he had feared that Christine had run away from him, because she did not love him. How could he even begin to comprehend the horror of what Madame Giry had told him?

"_Your grandfather is a murderer. I am sorry, Raoul, but it is true. He was the one who killed Erik, so many years ago. Two women died as well, not at his hand but because of his actions. He ordered the deaths of many more men, and my father would have been one of them had he not escaped to Paris."_

And deeper of all those pains was the knowledge of what had happened to Celandine. For that alone, he wanted to shake the answers out of the Comte, perhaps even beat him.

He had loved him, once. But that love was wholly gone. Now he only longed for when he could be punished, as he so rightly deserved.

"I doubt it, Philippe. I really and truly doubt it." Even Erik's normally beautiful voice was icy.

"It would not surprise me if it was. This would not be the first time that I have dreamt of you, during the years that have passed since we last met." The wretched old man hardly seemed to be looking at his erstwhile victim now, before his eyes cleared and sharpened once more.

"But I can see," he went on blithely, "that you stand before me in quite a corpse like state, and you always appeared to me in my phantasms whole – or as whole as you would ever be. I must reason that, horrible as this all is, it is nevertheless real and unimagined. I suppose," he added, over his shoulder to Meg, "that this is the reason you brought me down here? To face my crime at last?"

"Of course," Meg shot back quickly. "Who has more right to judge you that the man you murdered, your brother?"

The old man shrugged elegantly. "_Foster _brother, Mademoiselle Giry; let us not forget that. Though thanks to his mother being such a loose woman, he might well be my half-brother as well."

_You…_Raoul hardly knew what to call him anymore. _He doesn't deserve that. _Nobody_ deserves that, you evil…Lord, what do I call you now? I don't know what to call you anymore. I loved you once, despite all you had done to us. Now I don't know what to think of you. Now I can hardly look at you._

Erik, ignorant of his rival's uncharacteristic sympathy on his part, simply laughed softly. "Oh, Philippe, dear Philippe…such kind words. You have not changed in wit, though you have certainly changed in body. Do you know," he added, taking a step forward, smiling harshly, "once upon a time, I would have cursed the whole de Chagny family but for _you_, despite your somewhat sour nature. Because I loved you like the brother that you were to me, hard as it might be for you to imagine it."

The crooked smile slowly melted from his face, like ice melting so cold that it was beyond freezing, and boiling instead. His voice came lower then. "Then, I would have cursed the whole family _because_ of you."

"And did you?" The Comte's words were entirely too quick, and it drew the attention of all. Erik's eyebrow lifted slowly as what remained of his lips pursed.

"Why? You think that I cursed you with my dying breaths? _I _am not the one being judged here, Philippe. Remember, thanks entirely to _you, _I am now beyond judgment. As to curses…perhaps I did, but the threats of a deceased man generally tend to carry very little weight."

_I could challenge that – but then again, this isn't my argument._

When the Comte made no reply to this, Erik, began to smile again. "Why the questions? Do you hold _me _responsible for everything little thing that happened to you since you oh so very gallantly stabbed me in the side on my wedding morn?"

"And why not? I would not put it past you." The old man spat the words as if they left a bad taste upon his tongue.

"What in the name of all the saints are you talking about?" Carlotta demanded irritably, shocking him back into awareness of the others, and even of himself. He had been so caught up in watching the two enemies quarrel that he had even forgotten to breathe; he hurriedly drew in breath.

"I shall tell you, mamselle. Ever since this…creature," and at that the Comte shot a glance at Erik that made him sink with shame, "died, there had been a shadow upon the de Chagny family. The wives have had miscarriages. Children have died in childbirth or in infancy. Have you not wondered, Raoul, why none of the family have lived past fifty…save myself?"

"So you blame _me?_" Erik asked in amused disbelief, a disbelief Raoul himself felt, even as he glared at the Comte for daring to address him in such a familiar way; he had no right to do that anymore. "Just because some family members have been unlucky in health? Ridiculous. If I _had _cursed you," he went on, a thoughtful expression that was little better than his anger appearing upon his face, "I could have done _much_ better than that. But rest your grey old head; I did nothing of the sort. You are enough of a bastard without having ill luck from beyond the grave to help you. You cannot pin the blame upon me."

"You…you…" The Comte was visibly shaking with anger, obviously not used to be spoken to in such a manner, but with some effort he calmed himself. "You call me a villain, Erik? You, who tortured and killed so many people? You, who delighted in slaughter? What was it they called you in Persia; the Angel of Death?"

"That's not true!" Raoul felt like weeping when he saw Christine marching forward, glaring at the Comte, the book Meg had given her still clutched in her hand. "You know _nothing_ of it. There was no choice for him. You speak of something about which you know nothing!"

_Oh, Christine…_His heart sank even as it ached for her. Her lovely dark eyes shone with righteous anger, anger in aid of somebody else, the one who challenged him for her love. And he could have hit the Comte for the dismissive look he shot at Christine, as if she were no more than a street whore. "It is you who speak of something you know nothing about. Do you think that he is a true angel, then, _mademoiselle_?"

"I think he is better than you by far," Christine said hotly, looking as if she would deal the old man that blow he longed to unleash. "Erik killed because he was forced to. He took no joy in it. But from what I can see of your conduct, sir, you still do not regret what you did."

He thought then, for an instant, that the Comte might actually hit Christine, and was already pulling himself quickly up onto the dais to prevent it, but instead the old man's fury died away as quickly as it had come, and he nodded, apparently sad. "You are right in some way, Mademoiselle Daaé. Well, if I am indeed to be judged, I must testify." He turned back to look at Erik. "What do you wish to know?"

Erik frowned, taken aback at this sudden compliance, but he rallied in a way that Raoul could admire. "For a start, the truth, for once in your wretched life. Why exactly did you choose to kill me?"

"Ah, yes. The catalyst to this little affair. You never knew why I did it, did you, Erik?"

"I made some guesses, since I had a great deal of time to muse upon it; but I am quite sure they will not be nearly so enlightening as your revelation," the living corpse retorted coldly. The Comte sighed, as if dreading what would come next. _As he no doubt should._

"Very well. I hated you and in the end I killed you, because you always had more than I had. "

There was silence in the echoing lair as Erik considered this, before a slow grin spread across his face once more. "You are being serious, Philippe? My word, you _are_ growing senile. For God's sake, you were going to be the next Comte de Chagny! _I_ didn't even have a whole face! What could you _possibly_ find to be envious of in me?"

"Can you not guess?"

"No, I cannot. Do tell me."

The Comte took Erik at his word, and stepped closer, his eyes narrowed, why he could not tell. "It is you who are senile, Erik; or have you known nothing in this elaborate courtship of my grandson's fiancée? There are more important things than wealth and beauty, as _you_ should well know." He paused importantly, aware that he had the attention of all of them now; the cluster of women by the mirror, he and Nadir by the platform, and his enemy standing so close. "I speak of _love_, Erik, happiness and love. Your mother loved you as mine would never love me. And, god how I know it, you had my father's affection. You always had my father's love; I was starved for it."

_This is the reason? _he thought, bewilderedly._ Love? It all comes down to love? _And then, _But of course it does. It always comes down to love. I should know that full well, perhaps more than Erik, even._

"So you killed me because the man favored me rather than you?" Erik retorted, though to Raoul's eyes he looked rather shaken at this news.

"That was one of the reasons," the Comte replied softly, stepping backwards again. "But there were others. I could not let you live; you had become too dangerous. The influence you had been given in the family by my father after your return from your little pleasure trip might have damaged us all beyond repair."

"Poor reasons indeed," Nadir spoke from right beside Raoul – Raoul had almost forgotten that the spirit of the Persian was there, he had spoken so little. "I would say, sir, that they are rather little more than excuses, which you have fabricated for yourself, over the years."

"It has…haunted me." Comte Philippe nodded, distractedly, unalarmed by the sight of the Persian. "I tried to make amends, but I could find no solace. I turned to my family, I hoped I could find some forgiveness there. I hoped to find the love that I had lacked in my childhood. I did my best for them-"

_You dare? You __**dare?**_

"How dare you." Raoul had forgotten all else at those words, as rage began to flood him. _Why doesn't the earth split beneath him and swallow him up, why doesn't fire come from the sky to melt him? Why doesn't the world rebel at these falsehoods, this treachery? _"How _dare _you? You stand there and speak of how much you love your family?" he spat, clambering up at last onto the platform, so that he could speak to the Comte face to face. He leaned forward, and when the old man stumbled backwards he stepped forward further, refusing to let him escape.

"What about Celandine, _dear _grandfather?" he said softly, making the term of endearment sound as much like an insult as he possibly could. "What about the great-grandchild that you _murdered,_ to bring Erik into the Land of the Living? Your crimes haven't ended, they've never ceased!"

"Hold your tongue, Raoul." But he was equal to Comte Philippe's glare, and merely went on, years of discipline and obedience falling away from him like a shed skin. "Madame Giry told me the truth! You slipped a potion into Celandine's wine, so that she would miscarry. You timed it so that it would occur during the wedding ceremony, so that Erik might be summoned into the Land of the Living, for what reason I know not. You used the child, your own blood, as a sacrifice. That such a man should be my grandsire! The thought of it makes me sick!"

The Comte quavered under his descendant's glare, and spoke again, more softly now, his words shocking despite their low tone. "The child was illegitimate, Raoul. Had it been allowed to live and be born, it would have wrecked Celandine's life. She would have been shamed and disgraced forever. I could not allow that to happen. I had already harmed her by finding her such a husband, and I blame myself for that even now. She could have brought the miscarriage about and claimed it was an illness, with no damage to her reputation. She even had the potion to destroy the child, but she would not take it, she was too afraid. I had to make the choice for her. I had to choose between, my granddaughter and her child. I chose Celandine."

"If that is true," Raoul said, even as he secretly wondered at the truth of what had just been said – _would Celandine actually commit adultery? Is he merely lying to protect himself? _- "then it was not your choice to make. Afraid or not, it was Celandine's choice, and you took that away from her. How do you know that what you have done will not destroy her yet? Or were you not listening when she screamed, Comte Philippe? Did her cries not pierce your heart? I doubt it, for it seems you don't have one. You just used her for your own ends, as you always have done – as you have done to all of us."

"How did you _know _the baby was illegitimate, in any case?" Meg asked accusingly from his left. "She didn't tell _you, _surely?"

The Comte winced at her voice, but duly turned his grey head to look at her. "I don't need to indulge in arcane rites to find out what is being said and done in my house, Mademoiselle Giry. Thanks to Erik, there are passages secret rooms and curious mirrors which even the servants do not know about, and which I walk along all alone. It was not long before I heard Celandine confide in her sister while I happened to be nearby them at the time, though they had no idea that I was there; and after that it was easy to piece together."

"I wanted my works to be a marvel." There was bitterness in Erik's voice as he stared at his feet. "I never planned for them to be used as a way to undo the helpless, ever again."

"And that was how you knew how to summon Erik," Cecile said slowly, as if working it out still. "You followed us from the ball, somehow, and you saw _us_ performing the rite, and you copied it as best you could – only you used Celandine's baby instead of your own blood." The young woman's face was pale with horror as she finished, sickened at her own realization and the Comte's silence, only showing his guilt further. He felt scarcely less sick. _This is all our fault…if only we'd been more careful! We had to do the rite, of course. I still would have done it, even now. But Celandine has paid the price for our foolishness._

"It's my fault." He looked over at Christine, to see that her hands had gone to her mouth and that they trembled. "If you hadn't brought me back-"

He wouldn't have that. Swiftly he crossed over to her and put his arm around her, pulling her close. "Don't you _dare _start thinking in that way again," he whispered in her ear. "We've told you time and time again, it was no fault of yours. _He _is the one who did this, of his own free will, and if I have anything to do with it, he will pay for it."

"And I have told you before, Vicomte; his argument is with me alone." Erik was looking at them, but not with anger as he had suspected. Instead his eyes were fixed on what Christine still held in her hands. "I see you still need that book though, Philippe."

"That's what I want to know!" Meg burst out excitedly. "I read through some of it, and it's curious – but why is it so important to you? Why did you want to hide it away?"

But it was Erik who replied gently, as if lost in thought. "Some of it was already written when it came into my possession. It belonged first to my mother, the Comte Charles had given it to her. He had written poetry in it for her, and I added my own verses. But then I used it for something other than poetry." He looked back at Meg, his eyes clearer now, less thoughtful and more intent. "The pages were not always so thick, or so relatively few. I used them to hide things, such as the layout of the building I was working upon at the time, and other works of mine…"

He paused, and looked over at the Comte, who steadily refused to meet his gaze. Meg had quickly taken the book back from Christine and was already fumbling at one of the pages eagerly, presumably determined to see if this was true. "I assume the reason Philippe here wished to conceal it is for the same reason that he killed those who chased me into the woods to die, and turned my life into a ghost story – he wanted to wipe all traces of me from the world. He wanted to wipe away the remembrance of the scandal where so many lives were lost, and the scandal that came before that, when a Comte loved a common woman and her bastard son with half a face more as dearly as his own flesh and blood, _more _even than his own flesh and blood."

"But he couldn't get rid of the book," Raoul heard himself saying, to his great surprise. "He needed it, for the secrets it held, as well as the revelations. So he hid it away in the library, and only consulted it when it was needed. And then Christine found it, quite by chance…"

"And when I read it, it set my soul alight. It made Erik aware of me, somehow. And so I called out to him when I was in the woods, in some strange way," Christine said, in wonder.

"And so it comes full circle," the Comte said, with some weariness. "And what will you do now, Erik?"

"I think you know what I would do, had I the choice. But a certain promise I made, only a little while ago, prevents me from carrying out my desires." He met Erik's gaze evenly as the dead man glared at him, holding Christine closer to him, before moving on to the Comte. Behind him, he could hear Meg exclaiming softly over something she had already found; a map, by the sound of it.

"So, you wish to kill us." The Comte sounded amused. "It is only natural. Violence upon violence, again and again. But Mademoiselle Christine appears to have quelled your savage nature. Am I to understand that you have a rival for the lady's affections, dear grandson?" He looked around at them, huddling together. Raoul detested the look in his eyes; it was a look he recognized. It was the look the old man had worn when he had introduced Celandine and Louis to each other for the first time. It was the look of a butcher preparing to sell a slab of meat. He wanted to tear it off his hated face.

"I am no longer your grandson." He delighted at the Comte's shock, and sought to increase it. "You are no longer my grandfather. I deny you, Comte Philippe. I hate you. I hate you for all that you have done, all the shame that you have heaped upon us, for what you have done to your own granddaughter." He had let Christine go by now; he had to restrain himself not to fly at the Comte, who seemed to shrink with his every word, his mouth opening wider in dismay at this outburst. "So you can rot in your shame and your sin forever, if you don't get what you deserve before then. You seek to blind me as you did all of us, but I will no longer be deceived, Comte Philippe. For I have seen the true you, at the price of Celandine's blood, the blood of my own kin."

He paused for breath, before finally saying, "I know who the true monster is now. And it is not Erik."

Comte Philippe looked as if he might wither and fade to dust at any moment, he was so pale, as he turned to look at Erik once more. "Erik," he said softly, "Will you not simply take what you want, and leave me and my family in peace? Will you not take her for yourself, at last, and end this?"

_What he wants? What he…no._

This had been the evil man's whole scheme, all along, ever since he had found out the truth, one way or another. It must have been. He had taken away Erik's chance of a bride, so he would give him another one in death, hoping to make amends. This was why he had used Celandine's baby to summon Erik: so that Erik would be able to take Christine back with him, should he choose to do so. It was Christine who was meant to be the true sacrifice.

_He cannot. He _cannot _take Christine! _He made to catch hold of her again, but she evaded his grasp and only looked closely at the two foster brothers, facing each other across the main body of the platform; Philippe so old and aged, but yet still so alive; Erik both beautiful and hideous and very much dead, for all that he looked alive, and chuckling darkly.

"And will you try to buy me off with a woman again, Philippe, bargaining her away to save your own sorry skin? Do you think that will appease me? She isn't yours, she'll never be yours, she'll only ever belong to herself, her own sweet self. I know that I cannot simply take a woman as a man takes a fish from a river. Christine?"

Christine looked straight at him as she answered; "Yes, Erik?" Her voice hardly quavered. His own voice was completely lost.

"I know now what I must do. I release you from your promise." Erik held up his left hand, and Raoul saw a sparkle upon his finger. "I have no claim upon you now. You may choose freely." As she gasped, Erik looked over to him, and nodded. There was no need for him to say anymore.

_Is he letting us go? Willingly?_

But finally a tear was beginning to fall from Christine's red eyes. What did this mean? Resolutely he tried not to think of it, as he placed his hand upon her shoulder. But it was nothing compared to the Comte's reaction. He had staggered back at Erik's words, as if he had been struck, and clutched his side. Then his face changed, as if naked hatred had been carved upon it with a knife. Raoul stared; never had he seen the man so obviously emotional as this. Another creature entirely stood in front of him entirely.

"All for nothing," the animal whispered. "Celandine…Raoul…all for nothing." Then it snarled, wolf-like, "Tell me, Erik; can a heart still break when it's stopped beating?"

And as he was still listening to those words the Comte Philippe had turned swiftly, snatched the sword from Cecile's startled hands and dashed forwards. Before he could even shout _"No!"_, let alone move, there was a sound like a spade being driven into the solid clay of a flower bed, and the sword was sticking out of Erik's chest, and had gone through right through his body, emerging somewhere at the base of his spine.

There were little half-screams from the girls behind him, a matronly squeak from Madame Giry, and even a shout of alarm from Nadir. Christine made no sound, but she had grasped him arm and was squeezing ice into his veins, and he had grabbed her other hand tightly.

The Comte staggered backwards, panting, breathing deeply, from what Raoul could tell in his shock pleased with his handiwork.

Erik looked down at the blade that stuck out from his waistcoat, only a little way above the wound that had obviously killed him, but said nothing. Slowly, simply, deliberately, as if simply biding his time, he reached up with his flesh hand, grasped the hilt, and drew the sword out of himself. It slid between long dead flesh like a knife cutting through the paper of an envelope.

Raoul did not have time to see him pull it out fully, for even as he did so it was he who suddenly made a dash forward, too fast for the eye to track, and then, then there was a sound not like a spade into clay but a fork into a raw joint of meat, and a sharp "Oh!", as if the Comte been struck harshly across the face and was voicing his surprise and pain.

Then he could see again, and he saw the Comte Philippe de Chagny, his grandfather, the man who had given him presents and sweets, who watched him play and watched him grow and watched him learn to love, and who had loved him as truly as a grandfather could love his grandson, pressed against the man that he had killed, with his own sword sticking out from his back.

* * *

There was no anger in Philippe's face now, so very close to him. There was only surprise, and pain. He didn't look as if he had been stabbed. He only looked as if he had banged his shin, or cut his finger. Erik almost laughed out loud in the thrill that shuddered through him. 

Slowly he pulled the sword out from Philippe's warm, warm body. He could see that there was very little blood; in fact no blood at all, except a little around the wound. Philippe staggered as he lost the support of the weapon that had skewered him like an insect and the man that had done the skewering, but neither the Vicomte nor Christine seemed inclined to catch him as they clutched at each other. No one spoke, no one moved. He was surprised that they actually breathed.

_I wonder, _he thought dully, as he dropped the sword to the floor with a clatter, _what I should be feeling. It's been so long since I killed someone. I've forgotten how it feels. Should I be happy? Or sad?_

_I really don't know anymore._

Philippe gurgled, and tipped forward. To his own surprise as much as anyone else's he was there to catch his foster brother, to bear him up, to take him into his arms. He had always been the stronger of the two, even in death. He remembered that he had once carried Philippe back to the mansion the de Chagny family had had in the days before he had completely rebuilt it. He could not remember the reason for it, only that he had carried him on his back all the way, his foster brother's heart beat warm against his back.

And now he had killed him, as surely as Philippe had killed him.

He could feel Philippe's heart beating weaker now, and weaker still, as it still tried valiantly to pump the blood around the failing body. The wound had been fatal, whatever it had hit. Christine was at his shoulder now, and the Vicomte was at his other shoulder. "Grandfather," he heard the boy whisper, almost stupidly. He could smell Christine's tears, hear her shuddering breaths. But all the world was in Philippe's face. He could remember when he had held another body warm in his arms, counting out the heart beats they had left until they were to die. It might have been his mother in his arms again.

Blood was beginning to show at the corner of Philippe's mouth as he tried to smile, and coughed. "This is your retribution, then?" he managed.

"Yes," he replied softly. "I may not have cursed you, but truly I knew that I could never rest until I had stabbed you with your own sword and dealt you your death blow."

_But there are other things besides this…no, no, I will never truly rest. Not even with this triumph…though _is_ it a triumph?_

"It…was a good blow." Philippe clutched at his sleeve, sounder younger now as he steadily slipped away from them, into a place even he himself did not know fully. "Raoul? E-Erik? What will I see? What will I see when I…when I…"

"I do not know. It is different for all of us." He grinned, but never had he felt less like smiling. "You will have to go and find out for yourself. I can't do everything for you, you know."

There were days past when he had said things like that, when Comte Charles, on a whim, had brought him up to the great house to study the books they had, in the days before the de Chagny legacy had poisoned both their lives. Where had it gone wrong for him, where had it gone wrong for Philippe? In their childhood? At birth? Before that? Had God willed it, or something else.

_You were so _glorious,_ Philippe. God damn you, you bastard, you were my brother. You loved me, you did, I _know_ you did. I loved you. When did all that love turn into so much hate? When did you come to hate me? When did I come to hate you?_

_Why did it have to be like this? Is anything worth this, this hate, this end?_

_But something at least has gone right, in the mess we've made of ourselves and our lives. I met Christine. I loved her, and she loves me, and I will lose her, and I will _never_ regret it, not if I last until the world crumbles. And I have you to thank for that, Philippe. _

He looked up at her, his angel, and her eyes met his, and he knew what he must do.

"I…I'm sorry for Celandine. I'm sorry for everything. Everything I touched died," Philippe choked. "You created, even after death, while all I did was destroy. Why did that happen?" The man's eyes were losing focus fast. Swiftly he stood up, lifting him up in his arms, and leapt down off the platform, pacing towards the water. Swiftly he lowered Philippe into the flow, waiting until the current caught him and his life was about to cease. Philippe stared up at him, now obviously unable to talk, eyes still questioning even now. All the things he couldn't say, he said with his eyes. There was no need now for apologies, for excuses. They understood each other.

But Philippe needed this.

He bent over his foster brother as watery hands began to pull at his body, and whispered into his ear, a last message to take with him into the Land of the Dead, to whatever awaited him.

"I forgive you, my brother. Die in peace."

He watched coolly as Philippe's soul shucked off his body and disappeared into the river like a silvery fish, and his body was dragged underneath the surface, not to rise again. Only when he was quite sure that it was gone did he turn to look at the living beings and the dead one that still stared at him. His mouth worked, but only with effort could he speak.

"You should all go. Nadir will guide you back upwards, I am certain. Or you could always take the mirror." He gestured to the article in question.

"You truly mean what you said?" the Vicomte asked, suspicion evident in his harsh voice.

"Yes." He felt so tired now. He felt an enormous urge to simply lie down and stare at nothing, to be a corpse again. It would be better than this feeling, all this feeling.

"I can take us all back," Meg said quickly. "I think I've still got enough strength to do it."

"Then go. Go. For you weary me all. I am tired." He turned away. He did not want to see Christine leave. He wished that they would all just go, and leave him in peace.

"Erik?" He was turned, irresistibly, back to Christine who had some how climbed down from the platform, her voice calling him as her hand plucked at his sleeve. Her face was stained with tears, and she had never looked more beautiful as she gazed up at him.

"Yes?" he asked, as gently as he could. _Don't do this to me. Please, don't. I can stand losing you, but I cannot stand you saying goodbye._

"You go on, all of you," she said loudly, addressing those she was not looking at. "I will join you." When they hesitated she added, more pressingly, assuredly "I promise it. I won't be left behind. I am sure of that."

He hardly noticed the rapid exodus that followed this, the rustling of skirts as, one by one, the girls vanished through the mirror, eager to be gone from this place of death. Even Nadir had respectfully retreated, fading away after bowing in heartfelt farewell to all of them. It did not matter that the Vicomte still stood by the mirror, watching them both like a highbred hawk. All that mattered now was Christine, who stood before him, and whom he loved, and who loved him.

"You truly mean to let me go?" she asked, once the noise had died down.

"What else can I do? Would you have me keep you here until you wither away? Or would you have me kill you outright? You could not ask me to do that. I have killed both my mother and my foster brother now, two that I loved among many that I did not know. But I could not kill you. I could never do such a thing."

"I didn't think you could." Fresh tears were seeping down her cheeks already. "Or at least, I hoped that you could not. Your love is so great; I did not know what you might do."

"Well, I know what I must do now." With all the effort needed to lift the world, he took her hand with his flesh one and guided her towards the steps, up them, each step feeling like mud dragging at his feet. For each step led further and further towards the last goodbye. _Counting down the heartbeats, until death. Everyone leaves me. _

"Do you remember when I first came here?" he heard her whisper. "And how I was so afraid, thinking only to escape?"

"I remember."

"It seems so long ago, now. Who would have known…who would have known, what we know now?"

"Indeed. Here. He slipped the ring off his finger, and pausing, dropping it into her palm. He smiled at her surprise. "Take it back again. I said I release you, and I will. Have my ring back again."

"This was yours?"

"Yes. The ring that I was meant to have been married with. Philippe had it back off my corpse, and had it made up anew in diamonds. Why do you think I recognised it so well."

Christine smiled, and she slid it upon her own finger once more. It was a pleasant sight to see it sparkle where it should reside.

At length they stood on the platform again. To his muted surprise, he saw that _Don Juan _was missing from the organ stool. One of the girls must have taken it. _And good luck to her with it._

"This is where we must part," he stated, and he softly drew his hand from hers, thought she tried to squeeze for it again. He nodded to the Vicomte as he went on: "Take care of yourselves, and of each other, for I know life is precious, and love more so. Go and live as best you can."

"How can I live?" Christine's voice was now choked with tears. "How can I live with what I know? With what I have left behind?"

"Aye, how can we?" The Vicomte's voice was choked as well, though not, Erik suspected, at this parting.

"Listen to me." He reached out, and placed his skeletal hand on Christine's shoulder, and his flesh one on the Vicomte's, on Raoul's, shoulder. "You must live. You cannot let yourself be destroyed in ways such as you have seen. I am dead, and you are alive. You are both so very much alive. So you must live. Living is learning to live each day. Remember that, if nothing else."

"I won't forget!" Christine burst out. "If I live forever, I will never forget you, Erik. I will never forget you."

He forced himself to smile. "Do not weep for me, Christine. You have the rest of your life to live. So go and live it." He made to motion her towards the mirror, towards Raoul, towards her friends, towards Life.

But Christine was moving towards him, a fire in her face and in her eyes. She was close, too close, and the flame in her was burning him and his face and his eyes. And then she stood up on her toes and one arm was around the back of his neck, pulling his head down, down to hers, her other hand on his withered cheek, a sweet attack or surrender he did not know.

A rhythm beat in his head that was somehow not his own thoughts: _Oh god oh god like father's funeral cold lips cold face I will I will I loved father I love him I love you Erik I love you, love you, love you, oh god I love you so I'll show you I love-_

Her lips touched his, and heat flooded through him. So innocent, lips touching, as his mother had kissed him, but she had never kissed him like this! He looked into Christine's eyes before they closed and before his closed, and he closed his arms around her small frame and he accepted her kiss and returned it. Her tongue, hot and sweet, touched his for an instant, and then they both moved beyond the physical and on to something more.

He had no way to describe it, truly he did not. All he knew was that while their loving touch lastedthere was no border between them, no skin and flesh and bone, nothing. He held her and she held him, and they did not know which was separate and which was bonded and they knew that there was nothing which could break this, ever, except themselves.

They were tumbling, they were circling, they were birds flying, they were fish swimming; they were everything and nothing, they were themselves and each other. His love flowed out to her, and hers to him, and they met and danced on some plain other than that of the living or the dead.

Again there were no words, nothing to be said. There was all that they needed to know in each other, and that was enough.

_I will love you forever. More than forever. Forever is not long enough. I will love you longer than that._

At last they came back to themselves, reluctantly slipping apart, returning ot their own bodies. The kiss, in truth, had only lasted a few seconds; and then he opened his eyes and opened his arms and she slipped from his embrace and turned to Raoul. And he looked at her for a moment, and then she reached out his hand, and she took it, unafraid, and turned to look at him.

Raoul looked at him as well, and a small smile spread across his face, the first time that he could remember seeing the boy smile, properly at least. He looked quite handsome when he did so, and kind, and strangely happy. He nodded to him for the last time, and put his arm around Christine.

He looked at her again, the love inside him welling upwards and upwards like a fountain. There was a smile on her face too, and peace and joy in her eyes and in her heart, too. She pressed her fingers to her lips, and then held them out to him.

And he pressed his cold, bare, bone fingers to where her lips had so soon left his, and then brushed the tips of her fingers with his own.

That was all. Then they stepped backwards, and the mirror took them in like a mother welcoming her children home, and they were gone.

He felt at peace. For the first time since he could remember, perhaps even before he was born there was no torment in his heart. Like a balm, Christine had healed all, leaving peace and rippling water in her wake.

He wanted to say so many things. He wanted to see Nadir, and tell him that he forgave him, that he was right, after all, and he had been wrong. He wanted to see Ayesha, and hold her close, and tell her how he treasured her.

He wanted to say everything that could be said. But then, everything had been said. Philippe was dead, at his hand, and yet he had forgiven him, and been forgiven in return. He had held Christine. He had kissed her. He had felt more than his own heart beat; he had felt her very soul beat against his.

_What more is to be done?_

He was growing more and more tired now. Strange, he had never been tired before, but now he felt exhausted. He wanted to sit down. No, he wanted to lie down. He wanted to lie down and slide off his skin. He wanted to go the way his brother had gone, like a fish into the dark of the river.

He walked down the step, feeling the weight of all his years upon him. He had held onto the mortal world, yet now he did not need to. He had so much without it. He had Christine's love. He had his memory.

_I will see her again. One day._

As he lay down upon the water, so tired now, hardly thinking that he did not know how to swim, he looked up at the roof of the cavern. Only it wasn't a roof anymore, it was much brighter than before. His love and his happiness lit it up, and it was no longer gloomy, since he had never attached any tapestries there.

Up there was where he had known that Christine was reading the book, and where he had heard her voice for the first time. Love and memory, those he would always have, even if he always had a scarred face as well.

But his face and his body did not seem so important now, not as important as they had once been. He felt lighter now, lighter than when he had once been a spirit without a body. He felt only slightly weighed down, and it was a simple matter to let go of that extra weight.

He fancied now that he could see a face, through the light that threatened to blind him, spirit though he was. A face he knew well, a face he had looked for, for so long, but had never found. His mother smiled at him and opened her arms wide, her hair falling down her back and her cheeks high on her face like tiny rosy apples, and her scent of water, not like the water all around him but fresher, cleaner. She had been crying, but she was smiling now.

And his body relaxed into the waters that bore him away, while all that made him who he was ran to her, as a child walking, and a young man running, and the man he had grown into racing to meet her. She swept him up in her arms, he threw his arms around her, he swept _her _up in _his _arms. He carried her and she carried him into the light, and Christine's love and his love and all their memory between them.

**

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This chapter gave me _so _****much trouble. I wrote half of it before I really started to study. Then I came back after the exams, and looked at it, and decided it could be better. So I rewrote it. Then I rewrote it again. Then, **_**still**_** not happy with it, I rewrote it some more. About the only things that remained constant were Comte Philippe getting stabbed and Erik getting smooched, which left a lot of leeway for events before, in between and after.**

**Also, I started crying as I wrote the end. I mean, I…it's **_**soooo saaaaaaaaaad.**_

**But the tears were soon overcome by the joy at weaving all those plotlines together. For the record, yes, there may be a few inconsistencies, but I'm going to go back and edit once I get this thing done. Which hopefully should be quite soon; there will be two more chapters, and compared to **_**this **_**baby they should be a piece of cake.**

**Can't write anymore. Dog-tired. Perhaps will expand in next chapter. Chips, y'all.**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	56. Endings and beginnings

**Disclaimer: This late in the game, you should know that I don't own any of this. Except, perhaps, Ayesha. 'Cos she is **_**sweet.**_

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**_**I know**_** I should have been writing the last bits of this, but the luxury of having nothing to do means that you, quite often, do nothing. So, in the time since we last met, I went on a cooking course, journeyed to Ireland for a week to spend time with my family (including a cousin whom I hadn't seen for goodness knows how long), got my exam results, squeed over them for about a week, and starting sorting through all this university stuff like a stick through…something horrid. I've also been writing a lot on my novel. And other stories. And reading Deathly Hallows. Ah, Snape; who would have thought you had it in you, you greasy-haired git? ( Sirius's words, not mine; I quite liked that sallow Potions master.)**

**Again, this chapter gave me trouble, which is why it took a while. Half way through I decided it just didn't work, so I rewrote it from Ayesha's point of view, because she is **_**such **_**a sweetheart and we needed one more chapter with her in it. **

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"**Maybe," he said. "Maybe I can get some kind of a happy ending."**

"**Not only are there no happy endings," she told him. "There aren't even any endings."**

**American Gods, **_**by **_**Neil Gaiman**

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**You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life. And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on. She is dead. You are alive. So live. **

**Dream, Fables and Reflections, _by _Neil Gaiman**

**(These quotes are as celebration unto Neil Gaiman. I've pegged him up there in my list of idols. I am also partly ranting about the fact that **_**Stardust **_**doesn't get to England until October, dammit.)**

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**Endings and beginnings**

Ayesha was afraid as she ran through the rooms of the house, crying for Nadir. Where was he, where _was _he? She was so afraid, afraid as she hadn't been for ages.

She wanted Nadir. She wanted…she wanted her father. Nadir was her father; he had always been her father. She wanted her father!

"Nadir!" she choked, as she rounded a corner. "Nadir, where are you? Something's wrong! Nadir, I'm frightened, _Nadir!_"

As she ran faster and faster, the face of the man she had encountered _up there_ kept appearing in front of her eyes, making her squeak and try to bat him away. She shouldn't have gone _up there, _she knew that now. Nadir would be so very angry with her…

But first, she just wanted him with her, if only to shout at her.

"Nadir!" she cried out again, wondering what the hot burning stuff at the corners of her eyes was. "Nadir, _please-"_

And then there were arms, scooping her up off her feet and into the air, and she knew who it was even as she threw her own arms around her neck. Nadir. _Her _Nadir. Her father.

"Nadir," was all she said, over and over again, as she kissed his cheeks and his nose and his forehead. "Nadir."

"Ayesha, what is wrong?" he asked, pulling himself out of her reach slightly so that he could look at her, and his green eyes were filled with sorrow. Was he already angry at her? "What is the matter?"

"I…" The words would not come. She tried to hug him close again to her, but he held his neck straight and would not allow her to pull him back. His eyes were no longer sad but piercing, as they always were when she had done something bad. And both of them knew now that she had done something bad.

"Ayesha?" Nadir asked more slowly. "Ayesha, what have you done?"

"I…I am sorry, Nadir," she managed, looking away from him at once, but his arms shifted so that one hand could come up and catch her chin and pull her face back to look at him.

"Ayesha?" His voice was patiently waiting. "What did you do?"

It was the hardest thing to speak, now. She had wanted to tell him, but that was before she had been confronted with him. "I am sorry. I followed you, Nadir."

"You…you did _what?_"

"I followed you," she went on quickly, trying not to see the surprise and shock in her father's eyes. "You were gone, and you didn't even tell me where you were going. So I went after you."

Nadir groaned, as she knew he would. _"Ayesha-"_

"I know you've told me not to follow you when you go out, but I…I just wanted to see. It…it was not nice."

"I should think it was not," Nadir said softly, holding her closer to him again. "Did you see anything on the way, Ayesha? Did anything try to - hurt you?"

"No," she answered honestly. "But when I reached – up there, there were many people, frightened and confused. I watched them run, and some of them burn." The people had looked like her dolls, which she used to play out her games with. But she had always made the voices for her dolls. They had never screamed on their own. "I was frightened. I wanted to go home. And then I saw a man staring at me. And I…I asked him if he had been the one who had hurt me."

Nadir stared at her before continuing. "Why?"

"He looked as if he was the sort of man who would hurt women. Lots of women, in bad ways. Then he screamed and ran away. Then I came back here, at once, even though I didn't mean to."

Nadir hugged her to him again, and she could feel a warm wetness on her shoulder. "Nadir? What is wrong?"

"Nothing, Ayesha. Nothing is wrong. And you have done nothing wrong either." Nadir tried to smile, but his smile was all wrong. She touched his face with her hand.

"Nadir? Father?" He started at that, but she pressed on. "Something is missing. Isn't it? Where is Erik?"

And then Nadir began to cry properly, though he smiled as he cried. "Erik's gone, Ayesha. He's happy. He's gone."

"Where has he gone?" She didn't really understand. Erik had always been here, ever since he had first come. How could he be anywhere else?

"Somewhere else."

"Will we…ever see him again, Nadir? Father?"

His smile was stronger than his tears. "We may yet, Ayesha. We may yet…daughter."

* * *

Later on, how later on she didn't know, after they had both cried together and held each other close, Nadir allowed her into his study with him. She sat down on a cushion and watched as he sat in his great wooden chair pulled back from his desk, resting his hands on the arms, and closed his eyes; and she started when he began to speak to the room and the room spoke back. 

"I thought you might contact me again, Darius," he said, and there was the ghost of a grin upon his lips.

"You have your right to know how it ends, Nadir," came a voice from the shadow of a mouth, a mouth, she thought, that looked like Nadir's, even though she couldn't see it. "If it hadn't been for you…"

"Yes, yes, I am aware of that," Nadir interrupted, though without much irritation. "How is everyone?"

"Part of the mansion is damaged by the fire, as well as many fine garments, but fortunately nobody was seriously hurt," said a girl's voice, soft but not timid.

"Except for Louis – _he_ is the husband of Celandine," said another female voice, and she sounded slightly more clipped than the first two, as if all the unnecessary words had been cut out. "He must have been hit on the head, or he was mad to start with. He keeps raving about a little girl with a slit throat."

"Ah." Even though his eyes were looking into something that was not there, she could feel that Nadir was staring at her with disapproval.

"Celandine has asked her brother to arrange an annulment," the clipped woman went on. "She claims that the treatment of her by her husband led to a…what is the word? A miscarriage. Comte Philippe has agreed."

"The _younger_ Comte Philippe, of course," a third girl's voice went on, and she sounded please, very satisfied indeed. "The only one, now. They found the other one's body in one of the corridors, rather than the secret room, so it's still a secret, and we intend to keep it that way. There's no wound, so they think that he died of a heart attack, or some such thing. They can say that he died quickly, or other rubbish."

"And Raoul? And Christine?" Nadir said quickly. "How are they?"

"We are here, Nadir." It was another man, sounding far more tired but also deeply content, from some deep depths. "Darius married us as soon as we came back, and these three and Madame Giry and Comte Philippe were the witnesses. They were the only people we could find who weren't panicking."

"Nadir," and at once she sat up, for it was Christine, the pretty lady, who was speaking now, even though she wasn't there, "we all wish to know…how is Erik?" She spoke as if it was everyone wished to know, but especially herself.

"Erik…Erik is gone, Mademoiselle…_Madame_ Christine."

"Gone?" Christine, the pretty lady, sounded as if she were hurt.

"Gone? Where?" the tired sounding man asked.

"I do not know." As Nadir said that a tear rolled down his face. Perhaps he didn't even know it, as he smiled. "He has moved on, on from the Land of the Dead, to somewhere beyond that – what that is, even I cannot say, Vicomte. He was able to let go of life, at last. He was happy. He is happy, now. He is at peace, forever more."

"I am glad," the tired man said, and he really did sound it. "Nobody deserves peace more than he does."

"And we will have peace now," the satisfied girl said. "We are no longer in danger, any of us. And I think Carlotta is celebrating that, judging by how fervently she attended to that young man who had gotten tangled up in the curtain and nearly choked to death, washing his brow and holding his hand. What was his name again, the one that you called such a silly boy?"

"Oh, hush, Meg, hush! This is no time for that!" The clipped girl sounded annoyed, but not in a bad way.

"I think it is," said Christine. "Erik said that we must learn to live. So here we are, living, each in our own way. And I am so very glad for it."

That made up Ayesha's mind. Nadir had told her not to talk, not to break his concentration, but she wanted to see the pretty lady again. So she got up, and walked over to Nadir, and touched his hand. "Nadir?"

Nadir looked over at her, not as annoyed as she had expected. There was only a very little there, like oil on bread. "What is it, Ayesha?" he asked, softly, gently.

"I want to…can I see? Can I talk to them?"

"Nadir?" One of the voices, the first man, who hadn't spoken for a long time, spoke now, sounding anxious. "What is that?"

Nadir considered her for a moment, and then he smiled. He reached out his arms for her, and she scrambled up and onto his knees, seating herself upon his lap. He put his arms around her, holding her safe.

"Now, look carefully," he said to her, and only to her. "Imagine you're looking for something, something special."

"For Fatimah?"

"Yes, for Fatimah. Now, imagine that you're looking through everything important, and nothing else matters, nothing at all."

And she did. It was quite easy, really. She felt Nadir's knees under her, and his arms around her, but suddenly she wasn't looking at Nadir's study at all. She was looking at a man sitting opposite her, quite near. His skin was quite brown, his hair was short, and he was dressed in black. That cheered her. She liked black, it was what Erik had always worn. She didn't like his wrist so much, because there was blood that had come from it, and she didn't like blood. But she liked his face. She liked it very much. In some small way, it looked like Nadir. On either side of him were shadow figures.

"Nadir, who is this?" asked the man who was sitting down, with some surprise. He was the one who had spoken first.

She felt Nadir's chin rest on top of her head, and his jaw move as he spoke. "This is Ayesha, Darius. My daughter. Ayesha, dear, this is Darius, my great grandson."

"Hello," she spoke shyly – she was always shy with people she didn't know.

"Good evening." Darius didn't look surprised any more; he looked as if he understood. He was smiling now.

"Excuse me, please, but I wanted to speak to Christine. Is she here?"

One of the shadow figures moved forward, revealing the pretty lady, Christine. "I'm here, Ayesha."

"Hello, Christine. Are you upstairs again? Nadir said you came from upstairs. I went upstairs a little while back, but I wasn't supposed to, and I scared a man so that he ran away. How did you get back?"

One of the shadowy figures said, lowly, "Well, at least we know that Louis wasn't imagining things," and the clipped girl replied, just as lowly, "Does it matter? He is mad now, for better or for worse."

"My friends helped me get back, Ayesha. They were very brave." Christine smile now looked watery, not because it was failing but because her eyes were leaking not-quite tears.

"Christine? Will you come and see us again? I liked playing with you."

Christine shook her head. "I'm sorry, Ayesha, but I don't think that I'll be able to see you again, or at least not for a very long time. I'm staying up here, you see."

"Oh. Yes." She thought, and then she looked at the other shadowy figures. She could see there faces now. There was a girl with honey colored skin and red hair, and a girl with golden hair, and a girl with dark hair like Christine's, and a man with white hair. They all looked at her curiously as she spoke. "I hope you know how lucky you are. You're all very lucky to have Christine, and to have each other. You must take good care of yourselves, all of you, and take good care of each other. Do you understand?"

There was a chorus of "Yes," from all of them, as they smiled. They did understand. That was good. She looked back at Christine. "Goodbye, Christine. I hope I will see you again, though not too soon if you don't want it."

"I look forward to it as well, Ayesha." Christine blew her a kiss. "You take care of yourself and Nadir as well."

Then they all thanked Nadir, one after the other, for helping them so much, and the man with the white hair and Christine thanked him most of all, saying that they would never forget his kindness. And Nadir smiled and thanked them all in turn, holding her close on his lap and bidding them farewell, hoping to see them again, though, as she had said, not too soon.

And then they drew back into the shadows again, and Darius was the only one that they could see. And Nadir said goodbye to him, more slowly now, and she said goodbye as well. She liked Darius. She liked him very much indeed.

"Farewell, Nadir. And farewell to you too, Ayesha. Perhaps we shall meet again."

"I have no doubt of that, Darius. I'll always be here, waiting for you. Both of us will."

Then Darius was gone, and they were sitting in Nadir's study once more. She wriggled around so that she could look at Nadir, tears on his face but still smiling. She thought for a little while before she said what she was thinking.

"They've all been sad. Haven't they? Just like Erik. They've all been sad and afraid and lost. But they're happy now. They've found each other."

"They have, Ayesha. In more ways than one." Nadir ran his fingers through her hair, and hugged her close to him. "Oh, little Ayesha. You're so much cleverer than so many others. Including me, and that is not a small admission, I'll have you know."

"What will happen to them, Nadir?"

"I can't answer that. What do _you _think will happen to them, Ayesha, my wise little daughter? And to us, at that?"

She thought a little more, and then she snuggled close to him, tucking her head under his chin. "We'll be all right. And they will, as well. They're going to be all right."

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Daaaw. Feel the love, people! It's rather odd that this relationship built up, considering that in the beginning Nadir was based on Elder Gutknicht (that old skeleton with the beard in the roomful of books) and Ayesha was based on the little skeleton girl with the pigtails and the pink dress, both from Corpse Bride – but I felt that it worked. They're just so _cute! _****And Ayesha is useful as well, in that she is rather a simple little soul – in a good way – and so she doesn't need massive amounts of explanation or description that really isn't needed. I should have used her more. But at least she got to take revenge on one of the many men who 'hurt' women. Amen to that.**

_**ONE MORE CHAPTER, PEOPLE! SHOULD BE OUT TO YOU, VERY, VERY SOON! ASSUMING NOTHING GOES WRONG!**_

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**Oh, and reviews for the half-Irish seamstress, please. **


	57. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: For the last time – I don't own it. And do I regret it? Naaaah.**

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**At last, the journey ends. The road leads back to the doorstep. The dream is over, and all those sorts of phrases. **

**Once again, this is something I've been planning for over two years, and have been waiting for about that length of time to write. It's a happy and sad thing at the same time; like waiting so long for a film, and watching it, and enjoying it and suffering in it, and then it's over, and you feel hollow, yet so happy for having watched it.**

**Yes – this is much like when the credits began to roll up the screen, at the end of Tolkein and Peter Jackson's 'The Return of the King'.**

**Or the same thing with 'Deathly Hallows'. Or 'The Amber Spyglass'. You get the idea, I'm certain.**

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****I had always heard your entire life flashes in front of your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one second isn't a second at all, it stretches on forever, like an ocean of time. For me, it was lying on my back at Boy Scout Camp, watching falling stars. And yellow leaves, from the maple trees that lined our street. Or my grandmother's hands, and the way her skin seemed like paper. And the first time I saw my cousin Tony's brand new Firebird. And Janie... and Janie. And... Carolyn. I guess I could be really pissed off about what happened to me, but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain. And I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life. You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry... you will someday. **

**American Beauty, **_**written by **_**Alan Ball, **_**directed by **_**Sam Mendes.**

**She knelt beside him, resting her arms on his knees and her head on her arms, and Tom found that he was smiling in spite of himself at her crooked smile. "You aren't a hero, and I'm not beautiful, and we probably won't live happily ever after," she said. "But we're alive, and together, and we're going to be all right."**

**Mortal Engines, **_**by **_**Philip Reeve.**

**Samuel walked out to Lindsey then, and there she was in his arms, my sweet butterball babe, born ten years after my fourteen years on Earth: Abigail Suzanne. Little Susie to me. Samuel placed Susie on a blanket near the flowers. And my sister, my Lindsey, left me in her memories, where I was meant to be.**

**The Lovely Bones, **_**by**_** Alice Sebold.**

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**Epilogue**

_**My dearest Celandine,**_

_**As soon as I had read your letter, I knew that I must reply to it at once and send you all of my joy and well wishes, and those of Raoul as well; we are both truly delighted at your news. How marvelous to hear that you are expecting! You said that you have not told Monsieur Leroux yet, though. I understand your reasoning all too well, but I do not think that you should keep it a secret from him for much longer, since soon you will not be able to hide it in any case. Your husband will be overjoyed at the prospect of being a father, I am certain of it! And, when you tell him, you can be secure in the knowledge that you have already chosen a name – I agree when you say that Gaston is a fine name indeed, should it be a boy. Gaston Leroux: how grand it sounds!**_

_**And as to your questions, Philippe told us that the Comte du Barry is doing much better now – though perhaps that concern was not foremost in your mind – but he is not yet ready to be released from the hospital he is staying in, although Philippe makes sure that he receives proper care, and he is not ill-treated. Heaven knows that none of us wish for that, even taking into account Louis's former disposition. Philippe, by the by, has chosen to travel Europe for a time, which is why you find us in the mansion for now, at least.**_

_**You are certainly right about it being the season of fruitfulness, in the meantime – or have you not heard the news from Spain yet? A letter came from Carlotta Guidicelli two weeks ago; or rather from Carlotta **_**Piangi**_**, I should say. You remember the harlequin at the masquerade ball? It seems that Carlotta certainly did. I would hardly have believed it myself, but there it was on paper, more than once, and written in Carlotta's hand, so I reason that it must be true. She **_**says**_**, of course, that the only reason she accepted his proposal was because she wished to see more of the world than she could ever do as an unmarried woman, since they are already going on a concert tour around Europe; but I know the truth, her love spills out into the words of her letter despite herself. I am glad for her, gladder than I can say. Piangi sounds like the sort of man Carlotta has secretly always dreamed of, without either of them realizing it, since he not only loves her but respects her and allows her free reign over her life, just as he has over his. I think that – if you will excuse my choice of words, Celandine – that her greatest fear was to be trapped in marriage to someone she could not love, and be unable to do as she wished or go where she wanted. Now, all her fears are over.**_

_**But there is more news still. Besides informing me of her marriage, she was also asking my permission for something - you'll recall those manuscripts of sheet music left to us in the will, and how I gave them to her as a parting gift, I'm certain. Well, she says that she wishes to take them with her on the aforesaid tour, performing them all, so that all can hear the music that should have been heard and applauded so many years ago; and Piangi will do his best to sing the songs, or at least the male parts, since he took singing lessons as a boy and a youth and is really quite good. She asked for my assent in doing so, saying she'll give every credit to the composer of the works, and of course I agreed; but truly, she doesn't need my permission. I can think of no one with more right to play that music, or with more ability to do so. Besides, she says that at the end of the tour she'll bring them back here again, so that they can be kept safe for when the children are ready to begin to learn to play their instruments. **_

_**I am flattered, even though she didn't specify **_**whose **_**children, exactly.**_

_**Also, there is a more material reason behind her decision. She told me, quite plainly, that although it is exceptional music indeed (and as she is a shrewd connoisseur of that particular field, we must believe her), she is getting tired of being praised for performing other people's work, and in truth has already been working on her own compositions. In some ways, Carlotta is very much the same as ever! But I wish her every happiness, and all my love.**_

_**You were asking about Meg Giry, and how she has fared since last we parted. Would it surprise you to know that she is engaged? Madame Giry took her on a trip to America, with Cecile – our old maid, you'll remember? - and while there they met a gentleman named Timothy Burton while watching a performance of **_**Giselle**_**…and I am sure you can guess at the rest of the story. Just imagine, Celandine: he is the manager of perhaps the largest opera house in America, and as soon as he came across Meg he was apparently smitten, as far as I can tell from her letters. He proposed to her at a production of one of the ballets they were doing that season that he had invited her to – I don't believe even Meg herself could have thought of anything more romantic.**__**She sends her regards to you, and those of her mother and Mr. Burton as well. If all goes as planned, they should be coming for a visit from May to July, for Meg longs to show him the opera house in Paris before their marriage in the early autumn. It would be truly delightful if Carlotta and Piangi were there at the same time, for she said they would almost certainly perform there. Then we would all be together again, as we had been before. But for now I am as happy now as I could ever be.**_

_**My love to you, and to your husband, and to my niece or nephew to be, forever and ever,**_

_**Christine.**_

"I thought that you might be here."

Christine looked up to see Raoul walk into the room, his white hair gleaming in the sunlight. She smiled and put down her pen.

"Where else would I be?" she teased, standing up from her desk to greet him.

"Oh, I admit it was a foolish statement. At least I must be grateful that I will always know exactly where my wife will be, though she has a perfectly good morning room to write her letters in." He planted a kiss upon her forehead. "And a perfectly good parlor to do her sewing in, and a perfectly good library to read in. We need not have such a big house, for all the time you seem to spend in most of it!" But he was smiling as he spoke, and kissed her again.

"Well, dearest husband, you have plenty of places to be other than this room, and yet you always come back here, and not only for my company, I believe," she replied glibly, slipping away from him and seating herself once more. He beamed at her, and then looked down by the desk.

"How has he been?" he asked, bending over the cradle by which Christine had had her desk placed, to look at its still sleeping occupant.

"Sleeping most of the day away," she replied, reaching for her pen again. "Which reminds me, I must add a postscript to my letter for Celandine; she was asking about his health." _**And thank you for asking about Charles's health. He has had a cold or two, but other than that he is as bright and sunny as ever,**_she wrote quickly.

"Hello, little lad," Raoul was saying in the meantime, reaching down to stroke their son's hair. "You're lucky to have such a doting mother, and such a concerned aunt! Other boys are not so fortunate, you know!" She smiled yet again – _how much I am smiling now, and wanting to as well! – _as she added to the postscript in flowing letters: _**How lucky we are to have him, and each other; I could hardly believe that such happiness could ever be!**_

"Ah, he's awake!" Raoul said, more softly than before, as a little yawn, right at the corner of her thoughts, cut through them quickly enough.

"And can you blame him, with such a racket going on above him?" she quipped as she put down her pen and got up once more, to peep down into the cradle as her son blinked his moist eyes up at the two of them, one sapphire blue and one tawny yellow. He reached up and his tiny fingers brushed one of the chimes that she had hung over the cradle, to move in the wind or be rung by the cradle's occupant.

There was a moment of peace as the two of them contemplated the glorious sight of their child, and then Raoul broke it, however softly, with a question. "So Meg is definitely bringing her fiancée to see Paris?"

"With an escort, of course; Madame Giry certainly isn't going to let them out of her sight for a moment until they're properly wed! But you know as well as I that Meg couldn't let him do without seeing the opera house in Paris."

"Too true. Think of it, Christine; if fate had been different, he might have first seen her dancing upon the stage and rising from the grave." Raoul pulled a face that made her giggle to see. "At least their tastes are the same; they both have a liking for the macabre."

"Oh, hush," she replied softly, reaching past the chimes and down into the cradle, for Charles was reaching out his arms to her as he always did when he wished to be picked up. "Meg seems happy with him, and that is what is important, regardless of the tastes they both share." She lifted her son out and cuddled him close to her. He cooed and reached out for one of her ringlets, straining and squealing.

"Here," Raoul said, reaching out his own arms, "let me have him for a while. You are right, of course; I could walk through halls of palaces and yet would think only of this room, and the two within it."

"You would not be content, even if the halls you walked through were golden?" she asked mischievously, even as she passed Charles over and his lace robe ran through her fingers.

"They certainly would never be as golden as my little boy's hair," Raoul replied, and he walked over to the window, where the late afternoon sun made his white head as shining as the hair of their baby son.

Christine smiled at the sight of them – it truly was surprising, how often she smiled now, when there had been times when she had thought she never would again – and then sat down once more at her desk. She pulled another sheet of paper towards her, and began to write once more; but now it was a letter addressed to someone other than Celandine; a letter she would never send anywhere except to leave upon a certain gravestone.

_**Erik,**_

_**It is perhaps a year or so to the day since the mansion burned and you left us – left me. There were times when I thought that I would not write this – after all, are you in any position to receive it? – but in the end there was really no question. And I do believe that, somewhere, you will be able to know what it is that I am saying.**_

_**I miss you, Erik, and I am not ashamed to deny it, but it is not as terrible as it was in the weeks after the fire and my marriage. How good Raoul was to me, then! He understands what it is to lose someone you love, and he understood, too, that I loved you as well as him. But he does not hold it against me. He knows that it is possible for me to love you and to love him, and he knows how it is done as well, though it is something of a mystery to me. Raoul says that I have a great capacity for love, and that it is perfectly possible for such a thing to be. I am so lucky to have Raoul, for he helped me not to give in to my guilt. He is so strong, stronger than ever others might have thought him to be. Oh, Erik, if ever you hated him, hate him no longer, for he is more noble and virtuous and kind than ever his grandfather was!**_

_**I love him so, and I love our son, Charles. I can hardly tell whom I love most out of all three of you. That I should have so much love in me is astonishing, even to me; for I have given my heart to three men and each of them hold it so dear that it is wholly remarkable. We called him Charles after the Comte of that name. It seemed only right, after all, and had little meaning to anyone else; but how much meaning it has for us, and for you, Erik. He was born out of love, the great love that I have in my heart for all of you. Both of you have a hand in him, I feel, and both of you have blessed me with him.**_

_**When I have a daughter, Erik, I will call her Madeline, after the woman whom you are now buried beside, you taken out of your grave in the woods and her remains found in the graveyard of the asylum, together again at last. I will teach her to weave flowers into her hair, and to dance and to sing. Charles will learn to play the piano, to sketch, to compose. We will show them, and the other children that will come in time, the secret room in the de Chagny mansion, the house which you built and where I now sit in my son's nursery and write these words. We will let them read your book and the poetry and the love that made it and went into it. Carlotta will play your music that she brought back, that the world should have known and will know yet, she will never again taste a lie, she will always know the truth, and so will the world. Meg will be farsighted and show those around her the way forward, into the future. Cecile will guard all those around her from the flames that would destroy knowledge and the past.**_

_**And I, I can feel where you are. You are somewhere, I know, and you are waiting for me in happiness and in joy. **_

_**Perhaps I will write another letter to you, in a year's time. A letter a year, every year, for I will keep you alive and in my mind and in my heart. **_

_**I do not know what will happen when next we meet, Erik, but though I live and treasure living with every breath I take and every word I speak and every beat of my heart, I look forward to it. My husband and my son are with me, and you are with me too, this day and always.**_

_**Until then, Erik, owner of my heart with Raoul and Charles, I will part from you, for now, with something I have learned; an Irish blessing:**_

_**May the road rise to meet you,  
May the wind be always at your back,  
May the sun shine warm upon your face,  
May the rains fall soft upon your fields,  
And until we meet again,  
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.**_

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**And that is the end of this story, and the beginning of others. What happened after that, I leave up to you, dear audience. The lives that were lived, the careers that were embarked upon, the friendships that may or may not have endured, the proposals that were accepted or refused, the number of children that were born after Charles and Gaston, or if they were born; the possibility of the secret story being passed down to those selfsame children; whether a certain fiery tempered, red-headed Spanish composer would have inspired a French one to write of a girl working in a cigarette factory; the memories that lasted and the love that remained when the story was done: all is entirely up to what you think is best. **

**Let it simply be said that they lived as happily as one could live, in this world, the one after that, and the one after that.**

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**And that is it! L'epoux de cadavre is finished! Words really cannot tell you how happy I am to have completed this – not because I didn't like it, because I love it and have always loved it, even when I hated it and wanted to dash my brains out with the keyboard – but because it's probably the first large scale writing project I've ever fully finished! Now, about that novel…**

Many thanks to everyone and anyone who has ever reviewed this humble little story. (I understand that 'little' is a relative term, considering the thing is _57 stonking chapters long_**, but humor me here.) I'm sure you all know who you are, and if you don't…well, time to get some dried frogpills then! (Only joking, you're all completely awesome, and you've all earned my platonic luv!)**

**An especial mention for Mominator, who always sent me really nice reviews to which I could never reply, because the reviews were never sent when said Mominator was signed in (or so I deem) and so I couldn't reply straight away, and I always forgot afterwards. Yep, I'm an eejit. And loving it.**

**Thanks to all my constant reviewers who were always ready to gush out their feelings after they'd read the chapter. Their praise kept me warm at night. And kept my review box going 'ching'! Metaphorically, of course.**

**Thanks also to all the people out there who read this, even if you didn't review, since it helped a whole lot to know that this was popular. That also kept me warm at night. Popularity in writing is like a security blanket, with the added advantage that people don't stare at you if you drag your popularity all over the place. **

**I will be rejigging some of the chapters after this, but as I said before, the story is done. What happens afterwards is up to you. It's unlikely to the power of ten thousand that I'll do a sequel to it, so I'll only answer a few questions in replies to your squees. **

**1) I don't know who on earth Gaston Leroux' s mother really was, since I couldn't be bothered to do enough research and I doubt the information would be available in any case. However, coincidentally he was born in 1868 or thereabouts, which is about right for this time frame.**

**2) The same goes for Timothy Burton's great-whatever granddad. Just thought I'd put them in as a tribute to the two people who came up with the ideas that I combined. And I don't know which is the largest opera house in America. Any takers?**

**3) The Spanish cigarette girl? A little opera first performed in about 1875, by the name of **_**Carmen.**_** Who says our own Carlotta couldn't have inspired Geroges Bizet?**

**4) And finally, little Charles. Yes, you were wondering about him, weren't you? Once again – it's up to you. **

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**But do not despair, now that this is over, gentle readers! Rather, turn to my other equally wonderfully stories, and perhaps even review them, and as you do perhaps you may hear faraway laughter and tinkling bells…**

It's me, old chaps. _Ching!_**

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**Once more, with feeling – reviews for the half-Irish Seamstress!**


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